University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


POEMS 


DESCRIPTIVE    DRAMATIC,  LEGENDARY 

AND 

COJSPTEMPLATIYE 

BY 

WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS,    ESQ 

IN    TWO     VOLUMES 

YOL.  I. 

I.   NORMAN  MAURICE,   A  TRAGEDY 
II.    ATALANTIS,   A  TALE  OF   THE  SEA 

III.  TALES  AND  TRADITIONS  OF  THE  SOUTH 

IV.  THE   CITY   OF    THE   SILENT 


REDFIELD 

110  &  112  NASSAU-STREET,  NEW  YOKK 
1853 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1853, 

By  W.  GILMORE  SIMMS. 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


NORMAN     MAURICE; 

OR, 

THE  MAN  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 


M15957 


DKAMATIS    PEKSON^E. 


NORMAN  MAURICE. 

ROBERT  WARREN,  his  kinsman  and  enemy. 

RICHARD  OSBORNE,  an  attorney  and  creature  of  Warren. 

HARRY  MATTHEWS,  a  friend  of  Warren. 

COL.  BLASINGHAME,  afire-eater. 

BEN  FERGUSON,  a  leading  politician. 

COL.  MERCER,  )   ^ 

COL.  BROOKS,  \  Pol^ctans  <>f  oppose  party. 

MAJOR  BAVAGE,  a  friend  of  Blasinghame. 
CAPT.  CATESBT,  U.  S.  A.,  friend  of  Maurice. 

Citizens,  Lawyers,  &c. 
MRS.  JERVAS,  a  widow. 

CLARICE  DELANCY,  her  niece,  afterwards  wife  to  Maurice. 
WIDOW  PRESSLEY,  a  client  of  Maurice 
KATE  PRESSLEY,  her  grand-daughter. 
BIDDY,  a  servant  girl. 

SCENE— First,  in  Philadelphia ;  afterwards,  in  Missouri. 


NORMAN  MAURICE. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  1. 

A.  parlor  in  the  house  of  Mrs.  Jervas,  in  Walnut-street,  Philadelphia. 
Mrs.  Jervas  and  Robert  Warren  discovered — the  latter  entering 
hastily  and  with  discomposure. 

MRS.  JERVAS,  \eagerly.~]     Well  ? 

WARREN.     It  is  not  well !     'Tis  ill !     She  lias  refused  me  ! 

MRS.  J.  Has  slie  then  dared  ? 

WARREN.     Ay,  has  she  !     Something  farther — 
She  does  not  scruple  to  avow  her  passion 
For  my  most  worthy  cousin,  Norman  Maurice. 

MRS.  J.     She  shall  repent  it — she  shall  disavow  it, 
Or  she  shall  know  ! — I'll  teach  her ! — 

WARREN.  She's  a  pupil 

With  will  enough  of  her  own  to  vex  a  master ! 

MRS.  J.     I  have  a  will  too,  which  shall  master  her ! 
Is  she  not  mine  ? — my  sister's  child  ? — a  beggar, 
That  breathes  but  by  my  charity !     I'll  teach  her, 
And  she  shall  learn  the  lesson  set  for  her, 
Or  I  will  turn  her  naked  into  the  streets, 
As  pennyless  as  she  came.     But,  wait  and  see,— 
You  shall  behold — 

WARREN.  Nay,  wait  till  I  am  gone, 


IB  "NORMAN  MAURICE. 

Then  use  your  best  severity.     She  needs  it — 
Has  no  sufficient  notion  of  her  duty, 
And— 

MRS.  J.     No,  indeed ! 

WARREN.  But  you  must  make  her  wiser. 

MRS.  J.     I  will! 
I've  treated  her  too  tenderly ! 

WARREN.  But  show  her 

Some  little  glimpse  of  the  danger  in  her  path, — 
Shame  and  starvation — 

MRS.  J.  She  deserves  them  both. 

WARREN.     And  keep  my  worthy  cousin  from  her  presence. 

MRS.  J.     He  darks  these  doors  no  more !     The  girl,  already, 
Has  orders  to  deny  him. 

WARREN.  You've  done  wisely. 

A  little  time, — but  keep  them  separate, — 
And  we  shall  conquer  her ; — ay,  conquer  him  too, 
For  I've  a  little  snare  within  whose  meshes 
His  feet  are  sure  to  fall. 

MRS.  J.  What  snare  ? 

WARREN.  No  matter ! 

Be  ignorant  of  the  mischief  till  it's  over, 
And  we  enjoy  its  fruits  !     Meanwhile,  be  busy, — 
Pursue  the  plan  you  purpose,  and  to-morrow, 
We  shall  know  farther.     I  shall  use  the  moments, 
'Twixt  this  and  then,  in  labors  which  must  profit, 
Or  fortune  grows  perverse.     See  you  to  Aer, 
While  I  take  care  of  him. 

MRS.  J.  Oh,  never  fear  me — 

I'll  summon  her  the  moment  you  are  gone, 
And  she  shall  know — 

WARREN.  That  you  may  summon  her — 

For  we  must  lose  no  time — I  take  my  leave. 

[Ex.  Warren. 


NORMAN    MAURICE. 

MRS.  J.     The  pert  and  insolent  baggage !     But  III  teach  her ! 
I'll  let  her  know  from  whose  benevolent  hand 
She  eats  the  bread  of  charity — whose  mercy 
It  is,  that  clothes  her  nakedness  with  warmth. 

[Rings.     Enter  Biddy. 

Go,  Biddy ! — send  my  niece  to  me.     [Ex.  Biddy.']     A  beggar, 
That  fain  would  be  a  chooser ! — So,  Miss  1 

Enter  Clarice. 

CLARICE.     Dear  Aunt ! 

MRS.  J.     Ay,  you  would  dare  me  in  another  fashion, 
But  you  have  met  your  match  ;  and  now  I  tell  you, 
Clarice  Delancy,  'tis  in  vain  you  struggle— 

CLARICE.     What  have  I  done  ? 

MRS.  J.  Oh  !  you  are  ignorant, 

And  innocent  seeming  as  the  babe  unborn, 
If  tongue  and  face  could  speak  for  secret  conscience, 
That  harbors  what  it  should  not.     So,  you  dare 
Avow  a  passion  for  that  beggarly  Maurice, 
Whom  I've  forbid  the  house ! 

CLARICE.  Forbidden  Maurice ! 

MRS.  J.     Ay,  indeed  !  forbid  ! 

CLARICE.  In  what  has  he  offended  ? 

MRS.  J.     His  poverty  offends  me— his  presumption. 

CLARICE.     Presumption ! 

MRS.  J.  He  has  the  audacity  to  think  of  you 

In  marriage — he  would  heir  my  property ; — 
The  miserable  beggar !  who,  but  lately — 

CLARICE.     And,  if  the  humble  Clarice  might  presume, 
There  were  no  fitter  husband !     From  the  Fates 
I  do  entreat  no  happier  destiny 
Than  but  to  share,  o'er  all  that  wealth  may  proffer, 
The  beggary  that  he  brings  ! 

MRS.  J.  But  you  shall  never ! 


8  NOEMANMAUKICE. 

I  am  your  guardian,  in  the  place  of  mother, 
And  I  will  turn  you  naked  from  these  doors 
If  you  but  dare — 

CLARICE.     Ah  !  that  were  guardianship, 
Becoming  the  dear  sister  of  a  mother, 
Who,  when  she  left  her  hapless  child  to  earth, 
Ne'er  dream'd  of  such  remembrance,  in  the  future, 
Of  what  beseem'd  the  past.     I've  anger'd  you, 
But  cannot  chide  myself,  because  my  nature 
Does  not  revolt  at  homage  of  a  being 
In  whom  no  virtue  starves.     Suppose  him  poor ! 
Wealth  makes  no  certain  happiness  to  hope, 
Nor  poverty  its  loss.     In  Norman  Maurice 
I  see  a  nobleness  that  still  atones  for 
The  lowly  fortunes  that  offend  your  pride. 
None  richer  lives  in  rarest  qualities, — 
More  precious  to  the  soul  that  feeds  on  worth, 
Than  all  your  city  glitter.     Do  you  think 
To  win  me  from  a  feast  of  such  delights, 
To  the  poor  fare  on  common  things  that  make 
The  wealth  of  Robert  Warren  ?     Madam — my  aunt, — 
I  thank  you  for  the  bounty  you  have  shown  me ! 
It  had  been  precious  o'er  most  earthly  things, 
But  that  it  hath  its  price,  at  perilous  cost 
To  things  more  precious  still.     Your  charity, 
That  found  a  shelter  for  this  humble  person, 
Were  all  too  costly,  if  it  claims  in  turn 
This  poor  heart's  sacrifice.     I  cannot  make  it ! 
I  will  not  wed  this  Warren, — for  I  know  him — 
And,  if  it  be  that  I  shall  ever  wed, 
Will  wed  with  Norman  Maurice — as  a  man, 
Whom  most  it  glads  me  that  I  also  know. 

MRS.  J.     Never  shall  you  wed  with  him  while  I  have  power 
To  keep  you  from  such  folly.     You're  an  infant, 


NORMAN    MAURICE. 

That  knows  not  what  is  needful  for  your  safety, 
Or  precious  for  your  heart.     Be  ruled  by  me, 
Or  forth  you  pack.     I  cut  you  off  forever, 
From  fortune  as  from  favor. 

CLARICE.  "Welcome  death, 

Sooner  than  bonds  like  these ! 

MRS.  J.  Ungrateful  girl  1 

And  this  is  the  return  for  all  my  bounty  f 
But  you  shall  not  achieve  your  own  destruction, 
If  I  can  help  it.     This  Maurice  never  darkens 
My  dwelling  with  his  shadow.     He  hath  made  you 
Perverse  and  disobedient — but  he  shall  not 
Thrive  by  your  ruin.     See  that  you  prepare 
To  marry  Robert  Warren. 

CLARICE.  With  the  grave  first ! — 

Its  cold  and  silence,  and  its  crawling  things, 
Loathsome,  that  make  us  shudder  but  to  think  on, 
Sooner  than  he ! — a  base,  unworthy  creature, 
Who  steals  between  his  kinsman  and  the  friend, 
That  gave  him  highest  trust  and  held  him  faithful, 
To  rob  him  of  the  treasure  he  most  values. 
The  reptile  that  keeps  empire  in  the  grave 
Sooner  than  he,  shall  glide  into  this  bosom, 
And  make  it  all  his  own. 

MRS.  J.  Silence,  I  say  !- 

Before  I  madden  with  your  insolence, 
And  lose  the  memory  of  that  sainted  sister 
That  left  you  in  my  trust. 

CLARICE.  My  poor,  dear  mother  ! 

She  never  dream'd  of  this,  in  that  dark  hour 
That  lost  me  to  her  own ! 

MRS.  J.  I'm  in  her  place, 

To  sway  your  foolish  fancies  with  a  prudence 
You  will  not  know  yourself.     Once  more  I  tell  you, 


10  NORMAN    MAUEICE. 

You  wed  with  Warren — Robert  Warren,  only ! 

This  Maurice —         [noise  without]  Ha !    That  noise  2 — 

MAURICE,  [in  the  hall  without]         I  must,  my  girl ! 

CLARICE.     'Tis  Maurice  now. 

MRS.  J.     The  insolent !  will  he  dare  ! 

BIDDY,  [in  the  hall  without.]     Mrs.  Jervas  says,  sir — 

MAURICE,  [without]         Ay !  ay !  she  says  ! — 
But  when  a  lady  means  civilities, 
'Tis  still  my  custom  to  do  justice  to  her, 
By  seeking  them  in  person.     There,  my  girl, 
You've  done  your  duty  as  you  should.     Now,  please  you, 
I  will  do  mine.         [Entering  the  room]         Madam — 

MRS.  J.  Was  ever  insolence — 

BIDDY,  [entering]     Mr.  Maurice  would,  ma'am. 

MRS.  J.  This  conduct,  sir — 

MAURICE.         Would  be  without  its  plea  at  common  seasons,- 
And  he  whose  purpose  was  a  morning  visit, 
The  simply  social  object  of  the  idler, 
Who  finds  in  his  own  time  and  company 
The  very  worst  offence,  could  offer  nothing, 
To  plead  for  his  intrusion  on  that  presence, 
Which,  so  politely,  shuts  the  door  against  him. 

MRS.  J.     Well,  sir  ? 

MAURICE.  But  I  am  none  of  these. 

MRS.  J.  What  plea,  sir  \ — 

MAURICE.     Some  natures  have  their  privilege — some  passions 
Demand  a  hearing.     There  are  rights  of  feeling, 
That  art  can  never  stifle — griefs,  affections, 
That  never  hear  the  civil  "  Not  at  home !" 
When  home  itself  is  perill'd  by  submission. 
He's  but  a  haggard  that  obeys  the  check, 
When  all  that's  precious  to  his  stake  of  life 
Is  fasten'd  on  the  string.     Necessity 
Makes  bold  to  ope  the  door  which  fashion's  portress 


v—'        , 

NORMAN    MAURICE.  11 

^ 

-  Would  bolt  and  bar  against  him.     'Tis  my  fate, 
That  prompts  me  to  a  rudeness,  which  my  nurture 
Would  else  have  shrunk  from.     But  that  I  have  rights 
Which  move  me  to  defiance  of  all  custom, 
I  had  not  vex'd  your  presence. 

MRS.  J.  Rights,  sir — rights  ? 

MAURICE.     Ay,  madam,  the  most  precious  to  the  mortal ! 
Rights  of  the  heart,  which  make  the  heart  immortal 
In  those  affections  which  still  show  to  earth, 
The  only  glimpses  we  have  left  of  Eden. 
Behold  in  her,  [pointing  to  Clarice^\  my  best  apology — 
One,  whom  to  gaze  on  silences  complaint, 
And  justifies  the  audacity  that  proves 
Its  manhood  in  its  error.     Clarice,  my  love, 
Is  there  from  any  corner  of  your  heart 
An  echo  to  the  will  that  says  to  Maurice, 
Your  presence  here  is  hateful  ?  [Takes  her  hand.] 

CLARICE.  Can  you  ask  ? 

MAURICE.  Enough  ! — 

MRS.  J.         Too  much,  I  say.     Let  go  her  hand, 
And  leave  this  dwelling,  sir !     I'm  mistress  here ; 
And  shall  take  measures  for  security 
Against  this  lawless  insolence. 

O 

MAURICE.  Awhile !  awhile ! 

You  are  the  mistress  here ; — I  will  obey  you ; — 
Will  leave  your  presence,  madam,  never  more 
To  trouble  you  with  mine.     You  now  deny  me 
The  privilege,  that  never  act  of  mine 
Hath  properly  made  forfeit.     You  behold  me 
The  suitor  to  your  niece.     You  hear  her  language. — 
How  different  from  your  own — that,  with  its  bounty 
Makes  rich  my  heart  with  all  the  gifts  in  hers ! 
Sternly,  you  wrest  authority  from  judgment, 
To  exercise  a  will  that  puts  to  scorn 


12  NORMAN    MAURICE. 

Her  hopes  no  less  than  mine !     I  would  have  pleaded 

Your  calm  return  to  judgment ; — would  entreat  you 

To  thoughts  of  better  favor,  that  might  sanction, 

With  the  sweet  blessing  of  maternal  love, 

The  mutual  passion  living  in  our  hearts  ; 

But  that  I  know  how  profitless  the  pleading, 

Which,  in  the  ear  of  prejudice,  would  soften 

The  incorrigible  wax  that  deafens  pride. 

I  plead  not  for  indulgence — will  not  argue 

The  cruelty  that  finds  in  charity 

Commission  for  that  matchless  tyranny 

That  claims  the  right  to  break  the  orphan's  heart 

Because  it  finds  her  bread. 

CLARICE,  [aside  to  JVormanJ]     Spare  her,  Norman. 

MAURICE,  [aside  to  Clarice.']     Oh!    will  I  not!     Yet  wherefore 

need  I  spare, 

When,  if  the  Holy  Law  be  not  a  mock, 
The  justice  which  must  break  this  heart  of  stone, 
Will  send  her  howling  through  eternity. 
'Twere  mercy,  which  in  season  speaks  the  truth, 
That,  in  the  foretaste  of  sure  penalties, 
May  terrify  the  offender  from  his  path, 
And  send  him  to  his  knees. 

CLARICE,  [aside  to  Maurice^     For  my  sake,  Norman. 

MAURICE,  [to  Mrs.  J.]  Yet,  madam,  in  this  freest  use  of  power, 
Which  drives  me  hence,  be  merciful  awhile, 
And,  if  this  heart,  so  dearly  link'd  with  mine, 
Through  love  and  faith  unperishing,  must  turn 
Its  fountains  from  that  precious  overflow 
That  kept  my  flowers  in  bloom — yet,  ere  the  word, 
That  leaves  me  sterile  ever  thence,  be  said, 
Suffer  us,  apart  awhile,  to  speak  of  parting  ! 
Words  of  such  import  still  ask  fewest  ears, 
And  words  of  grief  and  hopelessness  like  ours, 


NORMAN    MA  UKICE.  13 

Must  needs  have  utterance  in  such  lowly  tones, 
As  best  declare  the  condition  of  the  heart, 
That's  muffled  for  despair.     But  a  few  moments 
We'll  walk  apart  together. 

MRS.  J.  It  is  useless  ! 

What  needs — 

MAURICE.  What  need  of  sorrow  ever  !     Could  earth  speak, 
Prescribing  laws  to  that  Divinity, 
That  still  smites  rock  to  water,  we  should  hear, 
The  universal  voice  of  that  one  plea, 
That  claims  for  man  immunity  from  troubles 
Which  make  proud  eyes  o'erflow.     Who  should  persuade 
His  fellow  to  opinion  of  the  uses 
That  follow  from  his  tears  ?     What  school,  or  teacher, 
Would  seek  to  show  that  chemistry  had  art, 
To  fix  and  harden  the  dilating  drops 
To  brilliants  as  they  fall, — such  as  no  crown 
In  Europe  might  affect  ?     One  finds  no  succor, 
Sovereign  to  break  the  chain  about  his  wrist, 
From  all  the  fountains  that  o'ersluice  the  heart ; 
Yet  will  he  weep,  though  useless.     He  who  stands, 
Waiting  upon  the  scaffold  for  the  signal, 
That  flings  him  down  the  abyss,  still  hoards  each  minute 
That  niggard  fate  allows.     That  single  minute 
Still  shrines  a  hope ; — if  not  a  hope,  a  feeling, 
That  finds  a  something  precious  even  in  pain, 
And  vili  not  lose  the  anxiety  that  racks  him, 
Lest  he  make  forfeit  of  a  something  better 
Which  yet  he  cannot  name.     And,  at  the  last, 
I,  whom  you  doom  to  loss  of  more  than  life, 
May  well  implore  the  respite  of  a  moment, 
If  but  to  suffer  me  to  count  once  more, 
The  treasure  that  I  lose.     A  moment,  madam  ? 

MRS.  J.  [walks  up  the  staged]     A  single  moment,  then. 


14  NOEMAN    MAURICE. 

MAURICE.  Oh  !  you  are  gracious  ! 

A  single  moment  is  a  boundless  blessing 
To  him  you  rob  of  time  !     Clarice,  my  love. 

CLARICE.  My  Norman  ! 

MAURICE.     Oh  !  is  it  thus,  my  Clarice — is  it  thus  ? 

CLARICE.         We  have  been  children,  Norman,  in  ovj- 
We  are  the  sport  of  fate  ! 

MAURICE.  And  shall  be  ever, 

If  that  there  be  no  courage  in  our  hearts 
To  shape  the  fates  to  favor  by  our  will. 

CLARICE.  What  mean  you,  Norman  ' 

MAURICE.  What  should  Norman  mean, 

But,  if  he  can,  to  grapple  with  his  fortune, 
And,  like  a  sturdy  wrestler  in  the  ring, 
Throw  heart  and  hope  into  the  perilous  struggle  ? 
Wliat  should  I  mean  but  happiness  for  thee, — 
Thou  willing,  as  myself  ?      Who  strives  with  fate, 
Must  still,  like  him,  the  mighty  Macedonian, 
Seize  the  coy  priestess  by  the  wrist,  and  lead  her 
Where  yet  she  would  not  go  !     Suppose  me  faithful 
To  the  sweet  passion  I  have  tender'd  you, 
And  what  remains  in  this  necessity, 
But  that,  made  resolute  by  grim  denial, 
I  challenge  from  your  love  sufficient  courage, 
To  take  the  risks  of  mine  ! 

CLARICE.  Within  your  eye 

A  meaning  more  significant  than  your  words, 
Would  teach  me  still  to  tremble.     That  I  love  you, 
You  doubt  not,  Norman  !     That  my  heart  hath  courage 
To  match  the  love  it  feels  for  you — 

MAURICE.  It  hath — it  hath  ! 

If  that  the  love  be  there,  as  I  believe  it, 
That  love  will  bring,  to  nourish  needful  strength, 
A  virtue  that  makes  love  a  thing  of  soul, 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  15 

And  arms  its  will  with  wings.     Oh  !  read  yon  not, 
My  meaning — 

MRS.  J.  \approcwhing '.]     Your  moment  is  a  long  one,  sir. 

MAURICE.  Ah,  madam  ! 

Who  chides  .the  executioner  when  he  suffers 
The  victim  his  last  words — though  still  he  lingers 
Ere  he  would  reach  the  last  ?     But  a  few  moments, 
And  T  have  spoken  all  that  my  full  heart 
Might  not  contain  with  safety. 

MRS.  J.  [retiring  up  the  ?tagel\  Be  it  so,  sir. 

MAURICE.         You  hear,  my  Clarice.     We've  another  moment : 
But  one,  it  seems,  unless  your  resolution 
Takes  its  complexion  from  the  fate  that  threatens 
And  shows  an  equal  will.     If  then,  in  truth, 
You  love  me — 

CLARICE.  Oh  !  look  not  thus  ! 

MAURICE.  I  doubt  not ; — 

And  yet,  dear  Clarice,  if  indeed  you  love  me, 
The  single  moment  that  this  woman  gives  us, 
Becomes  a  life  ; — to  me,  of  happiness, — 
To  thee,  as  full  of  happiness  as  thou 
Might  hope  to  gain  from  me.     She  would  deny  us, — 
Would  wed  thee  to  that  subtle  Robert  Warren — 

CLARICE.         I'll  perish  first ! 

MAURICE.  No  need  of  perishing 

When  I  can  bring  thee  to  security. 
I  knew  thy  straits — the  tyranny  which  thou  suffer'st 
Because  of  thy  dependence  ;  and  my  struggle, 
Since  this  conviction  reached  me — day  and  night — 
Was,  that  I  might  from  this  condition  snatch  thee, 
And,  in  thy  happier  fortunes,  find  mine  own  ! 
I  have  prepared  for  this. 

CLARICE.         What  would'st  thou,  Norman  ? 

MRS.  J.  [approaching]  Your  moments  fly. 


1C  NORMAN    MAURICE. 

MAURICE.         I  soon  shall  follow  them. 

MRS.  J.  [retiring  again^\     The  sooner,  sir,  the  better. 

MAURICE.         She  would  spare  me, 
The  argument  which  shows  thee  what  is  needful. 

CLARICE.     Speak  !     I  have  courage  equal  to  my  love  ! 

MAURICE.     I  try  thee  though  I  doubt  not !     If  thou  lov'st  in 
Thou'lt  yield,  without  a  question,  to  my  purpose, 
And  give  me  all  thy  trust. 

CLARICE.  Will  I  not,  Norman  ? 

MAURICE.     Then,  with  the  night,  I  make  thee  mine,  Clarice  ! 
Steal  forth  at  evening.     There  shall  be  a  carriage, 
And  my  good  hostess,  whom  thou  know'st,  in  waiting. 
Our  future  home  is  ready. 

CLARICE.  Let  me  think,  Norman. 

MAURICE.     That's  as  your  excellent  aunt,  who  now  approach( 
May  please  : — but,  surely,  when  to  my  fond  pleading 
You  sweetly  vow'd  yourself  as  mine  alone, 
The  proper  thought  that  sanctions  my  entreaty 
Was  all  complete  and  perfect. 

CLARICE.  But  Norman,  how — 

How  should  I,  in  your  poverty,  encumber 
Your  cares  with  a  new  burden  ? 

MAURICE.     There  is  no  poverty, 
Which  the  true  courage,  and  the  bold  endeavor, 
The  honest  purpose,  the  enduring  heart, 
Crowned  with  a  love  that  blesses  while  it  burdens, 

May  not  defy  in  such  a  land  as  ours  ! 

We'll  have  but  few  wants  having  one  another  ! — 
And  for  these  wants,  some  dawning  smiles  of  fortune 
Already  have  prepared  me.     Trust  me,  Clarice, 
I  will  not  take  thee  to  a  worse  condition, 
In  one  whose  charities  shall  never  peril 
The  affections  they  should  foster. 

MRS.  J.  [approaching.]     Sir, — again  ! 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  1 

MAURICE.     Yes,  yes — most  excellent  madam — yes — again  ! 
There's  but  a  single  syllable  between  us, 
Your  niece  hath  left  unspoken. — My  Clarice  ! 

CLARICE.         I'm  thine  ! 

MAURICE.  'Tis  spoken  ! 

And  now  I  live  again  ! 

MRS.  J.  Well,  sir — art  done  at  last  ? 

MAURICE.     Done  !     Ay,  madam — done  ! 
You've  held  me  narrowly  to  a  strict  account — 
And  yet,  I  thank  you.     You've  been  merciful 
After  a  fashion  which  invokes  no  justice, 
And  yet  may  find  it,  madam.     Yet — I  thank  you  ! 
The  word  is  said  that's  needful  to  our  parting ; 
And  that  I  do  not  in  despair  depart, 
Is  due  to  these  last  moments.     Fare  you  well ! 
Be  you  as  safe,  henceforth,  from  all  intrusion, 
As  you  shall  be  from  mine.     Clarice — farewell ! 

CLARICE.         Norman. 

MAURICE,  [embracing  her.]     But  one  embrace  ! 

MRS.  J.  Away,  sir. 

MAURICE.     In  earnest  of  those  pleasant  bonds  hereafter, 
That  none  shall  dare  gainsay.     Clarice — Eemember  ! 

[Exit  Maurice. 

CLARICE.     Go,  Norman,  and  believe  me. 

MRS.  J.  Get  you  in !  [Exeunt. 


18  NORMAN    MAUEICE 


SCENE    II. 

A  Lawyer's  office  in  Philadelphia.      Richard   Osborne   at  a  desk 

writing. 

Enter  Robert  Warren. 

WARREN,  [eagerly.]     Hast  drawn  the  paper,  Osborne  ? 

OSBORNE.  It  is  here. 

WARREN.         The  copy  this  ? — 

OSBORNE.     And  this  the  original. 

WARREN,  [examining  papers.]     "Tis  very  like  !     You've  done  it 

famously : 

One  knows  not  which  is  which  ;  and  Norman  Maurice, 
Himself,  would  struggle  vainly  to  discover 
The  difference  'twixt  the  words  himself  hath  written, 
And  these  your  skill  hath  copied  to  a  hair. 
We  shall  deceive  him. 

OSBORNE.         Why  would  you  deceive  him  ? 

WARREN.     Eh  !     Why  ?   It  is  my  instinct !     Are  you  answer'd  ? 
I  hate  him  !     Would  you  have  a  better  answer  ? 

OSBORNE.  Why  hate  him  when  his  kindness  still  have  served  you  1 
Tliis  very  obligation  which  hath  bound  him, 
And  given  us  cruel  power  o'er  his  fortunes, — 
His  purse — perhaps  his  honor — 

WARREN.  Why,  perhaps  ? 

Is  it  doubtful,  think  you,  that  this  fatal  writing, 
Made  public, — will  disgrace  him  ? 

OSBORNE.  An  error  only, — 

The  thoughtless  sport  of  boyhood — wholly  guiltless 
Of  all  dishonest  purpose.     We  have  used  it, — 
You  rather — and  the  profit  has  been  ours  1 — 


NOEMAN    MAURICE.  19 

Why,  if  he  pays  the  money  as  he  proffers, 

Why  treasure  still  this  paper  ?     More — why  hate  him  ? 

WARREN.     Let  it  suffice  you  that  I  have  my  reasons  ! — 
And  let  me  tell  you,  Osborne,  that  I  love  not 
This  sympathy  which  you  show  for  Norman  Maurice. 
BeAvare  !  who  goes  not  with  me  is  against  me  ! 

OSBORNE.     I'm  in  your  power,  I  know — 

WARREN.     Then  let  your  wisdom 
Abate  its  fond  pretension  as  my  teacher  ! 
I'm  better  pleased  with  service  than  tuition ; 
Will  hold  you  as  my  ally,  not  my  master  1 
I  have  remarked,  of  late,  that  you  discover 
Rare  virtues  in  my  cousin  !     He  hath  fee'd  you ; 
Employed  you  as  attorney  in  his  cases — 

OSBORNE.     Not  more  than  other  counsellors. 

WARREN.  No  matter ! 

It  is  enough  that  you  are  mine ! 

OSBORNE.  This  jealousy — 

WARREN.     Is  only  vigilance  !     Each  look  of  favor, 
Bestow'd  on  him  I  loathe,  is  disaffection 
In  him  that's  bound  to  me. 

OSBORNE.  This  document  ? — 

WARREN.     The  real  one, — the  original — is  mine ; 
The  copy  you  will  yield  him  when  he  pays  you ; — 
That  he  will  do  so,  now,  I  make  no  question, 
Though  where  his  money  comes  from  is  my  wonder. 

OSBORNE.     The  case  of  Jones  &  Peters,  just  determined, 
Brings  him  large  fees.     Another  action, 
The  insurance  case  of  Ferguson  <fe  Brooks, 
Secures  him  handsome  profits.     Other  cases, 
Have  lately  brought  him,  with  new  reputation, 
Liberal  returns  of  money. 

WARREN.  We'll  have  all ! 

See  that  you  pile  the  costs — crowd  interest — 


20  NOKMAN    MAURICE. 

Expense  of  service  ;  tax  to  the  uttermost 
The  value  of  your  silence  and  forbearance — 
Leave  nothing  you  have  done  without  full  charges, 
While,  what  has  been  forborne,  more  highly  rated, 
Shall  sweep  the  remaining  eagles  from  his  purse. 

OSBORNE.     What  bitterness  is  yours  ! 

WARREN.  Oh  !  quite  ungracious, 

Contrasted  with  the  sweetness  of  your  moods  ! 
Once  more,  beware  !     Do  as  I  bid  you,  Osborne, 
Or  you  shall  feel  me.     Yield  him  up  this  copy, 
Which  we  shall  see  him,  with  delirious  rapture, 
Thrust  in  the  blazing  furnace, — little  dreaming, 
That  still  the  damning  scrawl  that  blasts  his  honor, 
Lies  here,  in  the  possession  of  his  foe  ! 

OSBORNE.     Will  nothing  move  you,  Warren  ? 

WARREN.  His  funeral  only, — 

To  follow — while  above  his  burial  place, 
I  show  this  fatal  paper, — still  lamenting 
That  one  with  so  much  talent  should  have  falter'd, 
When  virtue  cried  "  Be  firm  !" — Oh  !  I  will  sorrow, 
So  deeply  o'er  his  sad  infirmity, 
That  they  who  come  to  weep  above  his  grave, 
Will  turn  from  it  in  scorn.     But,  get  you  ready ; — 
You'll  sup  with  me  ;  and  afterwards  we'll  seek  him. 
We  must  look  smiling  then  as  summer  flowers, 
Nor  show  the  serpent  crouching  in  the  leaves.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE    III. 
Evening  :   Chestnut-street.     Enter  Maurice  with  Clarice. 

MAURICE.     Thou'rt  mine,  my  Clarice. 
CLARICE.     Wholly  thine,  my  husband. 


JSTOKMANMAUEICE.  21 

MAURICE.     Now  let  the  furies  clamor  as  they  may, 
That  the  capricious  fortune  which  had  mock'd 
Our  blessings  with  denial,  has  been  baffled 
By  the  true  nobleness  of  that  human  will, 
Which,  when  the  grim  necessity  looks  worst, 
Can  fearlessly  resolve  to  brave  its  fate. 
Thou'rt  mine,  and  all  grtfws  suppliant  in  my  path 
That  lately  looked  defiance.     We  are  one  ! — 
This  is  our  dwelling,  Clarice  : — let  us  in. 

\They  enter  the  house  of  Maurice. 


SCENE    IV. 

The  parlor  of  a  dwelling  in  the  residence  of  Maurice,  handsomely 
and  newly  furnished.     Enter  Warren  and  Osborne. 

WARREN.     I  am  amazed. 

OSBORNE.  'Tis  certainly  a  change 

From  his  old  lodging-house  in  Cedar-street. 

WARREN.     His  run  of  luck  hath  crazed  him,  and  he  fancies 
The  world  is  in  his  string. 

OSBORNE.  He's  not  far  wrong ! 

His  arguments  have  made  a  great  impression  ; 
Their  subtlety  and  closeness,  and  the  power 
Of  clear  and  forcible  development, 
Which  seems  most  native  to  his  faculty ! 
He  was  born  an  orator  !     With  such  a  person — 
A  voice  to  glide  from  thunder  into  music, 
A  form  and  face  so  full  of  majesty, 
Yet,  with  such  frankness  and  simplicity, — 
So  much  to  please,  and  so  commanding — 

WARREN.  Pshaw ! — 

You  prate  as  do  the  newspapers,  with  a  jargon 


22  NORMAN    MAURICE. 

Of  wretched  common-place,  bestuffed  with,  phrases, 
That,  weighed  against  the  ballad  of  an  idiot, 
Would  show  less  burden  and  significance. 
We'll  spoil  his  fortune — 

OSBORNE.  Hark  !     He  comes. 

WARREN.         Be  firm  now ! 
See  that  you  do  it  manfully — no  halting. — 

OSBORNE.     You  still  persist,  then  ? 

WARREN.     Ay !  when  I  have  him  here,     [touching  his  breast.] 

Enter  Norman  Maurice. 

MAURICE.  Be  seated,  sirs. 

You  bring  with  you  the  paper  ?     [To  Osborne. 

OSBORNE.     It  is  here,  sir.     [Giving  copy  of  document. 
And  here  the  separate  claim — the  costs  and  charges. 

MAURICE.     "Pis  well !     This  first ! — I  pay  this  money,  sir, 
In  liquidation  of  this  wretched  paper, 
To  which  my  hand  appears,  and,  for  which  writing, 
The  world,  unconscious  of  the  facts,  might  hold  me 
A  most  unhappy  criminal.     Your  knowledge 
Includes  this  person's  agency — my  cousin — 
As  still,  in  moments  of  insidious  fondness, 
It  is  his  wont  to  call  me. 

WARREN.     Norman,  nay ! 

MAURICE,  [impatiently  to  Warren."]     Awhile,  awhile,  sir  !  we 

shall  deal  directly  !— 

I  said  [to  Osborne^]  your  knowledge  of  this  boyish  error, 
Betrayed  the  agency  of  Robert  Warren, 
Which  does  not  here  appear.     He  made  that  guilty 
Which  in  itself  was  innocent.     These  moneys, 
Procured  by  him  upon  this  document, 
Were  all  by  him  consumed.     You  were  his  agent, 
Perhaps  as  ignorant  of  his  vicious  deed, 
As  I,  who  am  its  victim.     Was  it  so,  sir  ? 


NORM  AN    MAUEICE.  23 

OSBORNE.     I  sold  for  him  the  bill,  sir,  knowing  nothing, 
And  still  believed  it  genuine. 

MAURICE.  He  will  tell  you, 

That,  what  I  utter  of  his  agency, 
In  this  insane  and  inconsiderate  act, 
Is  true  as  Holy  Writ !     Speak,  Robert  Warren  ! 

WARREN.     I  have  admitted  it  already,  Norman. 

MAURICE.     [To    Osborne.]     Be  you  the  witness  of  his  words 

hereafter. 

Here  is  your  money, — and  I  take  this  paper, 
The  proof  of  boyish  error  and  misfortune, 
But  not  of  crime,  in  me.     Thus,  let  it  perish, 
With  that  confiding  and  believing  nature, 

Which  gave  me  to  the  power  of  one  so  base !  [putting  it  in  the 
fire,  and  placing  his  foot  on  it  while  it  burns. 

WARREN.     Norman !     Cousin ! 

MAURICE.     You  cozen  me  no  more  ! 
And  if  your  agent  has  the  wit  to  gather 
A  lesson  from  your  faithlessness  to  me, 
You  will  not  cozen  him.     Take  counsel,  sir, 
And  never  trust  this  man  !     [To  Osborne. 

WARREN.     Norman  Maurice  ! 

MAURICE.     [To  Osborne.]     Our  business  ends !     Will  it  please 

you,  leave  us  now  ! 

[Exit  Osborne :    Warren  is  about  to  follow  when  Maurice  lays  his 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

MAURICE.     Stay  you  !    There  must  be  other  words  before  we  part, 
Not  many,  but  most  needful. 

WARREN.  Let  me  pray  you, 

To  fashion  them  in  less  offensive  spirit. 

MAURICE.     Why,  so  I  should,  could  I  suppose  one  virtue, 
A  life  to  leaven  a  dense  mass  of  vices, 
Remain'd  within  your  bosom.     You  shall  listen 
Though  every  syllable  should  be  a  sting ! 


21  K  OEM  AN    MAURICE. 

'Tvvould  not  offend  me  greatly,  Robert  Warren, 
If,  as  I  brand  thy  baseness  on  thy  forehead, 
Thy  heart,  with  courage  born  of  just  resentment, 
Should  move  thee  to  defiance  !     It  would  glad  me, 
In  sudden  strife,  to  put  a  proper  finish 
To  thy  deep,  secret,  foul,  hostility. 

WARREN.     You  have  no  reason  for  this  cruel  language. 

MAURICE.     Look  on  me  as  thou  say'st  the  monstrous  falsehood ; 
But  lift  thine  eye  to  mine — and,  if  thy  glance 
Can  brazen  out  the  loathing  in  mine  own, 
I  will  forgive  thee  all !     Thou  dar'st  not  do  it ! 
No  reason,  say'st  thou  ? — Thou,  whose  arrant  cunning, 
Hath  taken  the  profits  of  three  toilsome  years 
To  pay  thy  wage  of  sin, — and  smutch'd  my  garments, 
That  else  had  known  no  stain  ! 

WARREN.  Have  I  not 

Confess'd  that  wrong  and  folly  ? — 

MAURICE.  Wert  repentant, 

When  making  thy  confession — 

WARREN.  So  I  am  ! 

MAURICE.     Traitor  !     I  know  thee  better  !     Thy  confession 
But  followed  on  detection  !     While  thou  mad'st  it, 
The  busy  devil,  dwelling  in  thy  heart, 
Was  framing  other  schemes  of  crime  and  hatred, 
Outbraving  all  the  past.     Ev'n  while  my  pity 
Was  taking  thee  to  mercy,  thou  wast  planning 
New  evil  to  my  fortunes  ! 

WARREN.  Never,  Norman ! 

By  heaven  !  you  do  me  wrong. 

MAURICE.  Pure  Innocent, 

The  very  angels  look  on  thee  with  sorrow, 
To  see  such  virtue  suffer  such  injustice  ! — 
But  hearken,  while  I  paint  another  picture  : 
The  fiends  exulting  in  thy  ready  service, 


NORMAN    MAU  11  ICE.  25 

A  voluntary  minister  of  evil, 

As,  with  a  spirit  born  of  hell  and  hatred, 

Thou  pluck'st  the  flower  of  hope  from  happiness, 

To  plant  the  thorn  instead. 

WARREN.     What  crime  is  this  ? 

MAURICE.     I  heard  thy  plea  for  mercy !     I  believed  thee, 
And,  as  thou  wert  the  child  of  that  dear  woman 
Who  called  my  mother,  sister,  I  forgave  thee, 
Most  glad  to  listen  to  thy  deep  assurance 
Of  shame  for  each  sad  error.     So,  I  took  thee, 
Once  more,  to  confidence— my  bosom  open'd, 
And  show'd  thee,  shrined  within  its  holiest  chamber, 
The  image  of  the  being  that  I  loved  ! — 
I  led  thee  to  her — taught  her  to  behold  thee, 
My  friend  and  kinsman  ;  and,  misdoubting  never, 
Still  saw  thee  bend  thy  footsteps  to  her  dwelling, 
Nor  dream'd  that  to  the  flowers  that  made  my  Eden, 
Myself  had  brought  the  serpent ! 

WARREN.     What  means  this  ? 

MAURICE.     What!      Thou   know'st   nothing?      Thou    hast   no 

conjecture 

Of  what  the  serpent  sought  within  the  garden  ! 
Why,  man,  he  whispered  in  Eve's  innocent  ears, 
The  oiliest  nothings, — mingled  with  such  slander 
Of  him  who  sought  to  make  himself  her  Adam, 
That — 

WARREN.     'Tis  false ! — I  swear !     I  never  did  this  mischief ! 

MAURICE.     Liar  !     The  oath  thou  tak'st  is  thy  perdition  ! 
Behold  the  evidence  that  proves  thy  blackness, 
In  contrast  with  its  purity  and  truth  ! 
Clarice  !     Come  forth  !     My  wife,  sir ! 

Enter  Clarice  from  within. 

WARREN.    Damnation  !  [  Warren  rushes  out. 

VOL.  i. 


26  NO  EM  AN    MA  UK  ICE. 

MAURICE.     Tims  fled  the  fiend,  tcuch'd  by  IthurieFs  spear, 
Even  from  the  reptile  rising  to  the  fiend, 
And  speeding  from  the  Eden  that  his  presence 
Shall  never  trouble  more.     Henceforth,  dear  wife, 
Our  paradise  shall  still  be  free  from  taint ; 
A  realm  of  sweetness  unobscured  by  shadow, 
And  freshening  still  with  flow'rs  that  take  their  beauty, 
As  favor'd  still  by  thine.     From  this  blest  moment, 
Our  peace  shall  be  secure  ! 

CLARICE.  And  yet  I  fear, 

This  bold,  bad  man. 

MAURICE.     Bad,  but  not  bold  !     Fear  nothing  ! 
I've  pluck'd  his  sting  !     Thou  know'st  the  cruel  story  ; 
I  told  thee  all, — suppressed  no  syllable — 
Of  his  perversion  of  a  simple  paper, 
Wherein,  in  vain  display  of  penmanship, 
I  gave  him  power  for  practice  which  he  seized  on, 
Exposing  me  to  ruin.     In  those  embers, 
The  fatal  proof  lies  buried.     I  am  free  ; — 
And  in  the  freedom  I  have  won  from  him, 
And  in  the  bondage  I  have  sworn  to  thee, 
I  write  the  record  of  my  happiness  ! 
This  day  I  feel  triumphant  as  the  hunter, 
Who,  on  the  wild  steed  that  his  skill  hath  captured, 
Rifle  in  grasp,  and  bridle  rein  flung  loose, 
Darts  forth  upon  the  prairie's  waste  of  empire, 
And  feels  it  all  his  own  ! 

CLARICE.  I  share  thy  triumph — 

Would  share  that  waste  with  thee  and  feel  no  sorrow, 
For  all  that  love  foregoes. 

MAURICE.  I  take  thy  promise — 

Will  try  thy  strength,  thy  courage  and  thy  heart, 
As  little  thou  hast  fancied  !     Clarice,  dear  wife, 
With  dawn  we  leave  this  city. 


NOK  MAN    MAURICE.  2 

CLARICE.  How !  to-morrow  ? 

And  leave  this  city,  Norman  ? 

MAURICE.     Dost  thou  fail  me  ? 

CLARICE.     No  !     I  am  thine  !     My  world  is  in  thy  love  ; 
I  wish  no  dearer  dwelling-place — would  ask 
No  sweeter  realm  of  home  !     Go,  where  thou  wilt, 
I  cling  to  thee  as  did  the  Hebrew  woman 
To  him  who  had  his  empire  in  her  heart. 

MAURICE.     I  bless  thee  for  this  proof  of  thy  affection  ! 
This  is  the  city  of  thy  birth  and  mine, 
But  that's  our  native  land  alone  which  suffers 
That  we  take  root  and  flourish  ; — those  alone, 
Our  kindred,  who  will  gladden  in  our  growth, 
And  succor  till  we  triumph.     Here,  it  may  be, 
That,  after  weary  toil,  and  matchless  struggle, 
When  strength  subsides  in  age,  they  will  acknowledge, 
That  I  am  worthy  of  my  bread, — may  bid  me, 
Look  up  and  be  an  alderman  or  mayor  ! — 
And  this  were  of  their  favor.     The  near  neighbors, 
Who  grew  with  us,  and  saw  our  gradual  progress, 
Who  knew  the  boy,  and  all  his  sports  and  follies, 
Have  seldom  faith  that  he  will  grow  the  man 
To  cast  them  into  shadow.     We'll  go  hence  ! — 

CLARICE.     Whither,  dear  Norman  ? 

MAURICE.     Whither  !     Dost  thou  ask  ? 
Both  in  God's  keeping,  Clarice — thou  in  mine  ! 
I'll  tender  thee  as  the  most  precious  treasure, 
That  city  ever  yielded  wilderness. 

CLARICE.     I  know  thou  wilt ; — but  what  thy  means,  my  husband 
Thou  told'st  me  thou  wast  poor. 

MAURICE.     Means !     I  have  manhood ! 
Youth,  strength,  and  men  say,  intellect — 

CLARICE.     You  have !     You  have ! 

MAURICE.    A  heart  at  ease,  secure  in  its  affections, 


28  NOKMAN    MAURICE. 

And  still  the  soul  to  seek  each  manly  struggle ! 

Wide  is  the  world  before  me — a  great  people, 

Spread  o'er  a  realm,  along  whose  verdant  meadows 

The  sun  can  never  set.     I  know  this  people — 

Love  them — would  make  them  mine !     I  have  ambition 

To  serve  them  in  high  places,  and  do  battle 

With  the  arch-tyrannies,  in  various  guises, 

That  still  from  freedom  pluck  its  panoply, 

Degrade  its  precious  rites,  and,  with  vain  shadows, 

Mock  the  fond  hopes  that  fasten  on  their  words. 

CLARICE.     Could  you  not  serve  them  here  ? 

MAURICE.     No !     No ! 

CLARICE.  '  Wherefore  not  ? — 

.And  oh  !  they  need  some  saviour  here,  methinks ! 

MAURICE.     Ay !     They  do  need !     But  I  am  one  of  tjiem,- 
Sprung  from  themselves — have  neither  friends  nor  fortune, 
And  will  not  stoop,  entreating  as  for  favor, 
When  I  would  serve  to  save  !     They  lack  all  faith 
In  him  who  scorns  to  flatter  their  delusions, 
And  lie  them  to  self-worship.     In  the  West, 
There  is  a  simpler  and  a  hardier  nature, 
That  proves  men's  values,  not  by  wealth  and  title, 
But  mind  and  manhood.     There,  no  ancient  stocks, 
Claim  power  from  precedence.     Patrician  people, 
That  boast  of  virtues  in  their  grandmothers, 
Are  challenged  for  their  own.     With  them  it  answers, 
If  each  man  founds  his  family,  and  stands 
The  father  of  a  race  of  future  men ! 
Mere  parchment,  and  the  vain  parade  of  title, 
Lift  no  man  into  stature.     Such  a  region 
Yields  all  that  I  demand — an  open  field, 
And  freedom  to  all  comers.     So,  the  virtues 
Flourish  according  to  their  proper  nature  ; 
And  each  man,  as  he  works  with  will  and  courage, 


NORMAN    MAUEICE.  5 

Reaps  the  good  fruitage  proper  to  his  claim  ; — 
Thither,  dear  wife ! 

CLARICE.     I'm  thine ! 

MAURICE.  Thy  ready  answer, 

Completes  my  triumph  !     Wings  are  at  my  shoulders, 
And  more  than  eagle  empires  woo  my  flight ! 
Yet,  do  I  something  fear, — Clarice — 

CLARICE.     What  fear  ? 

MAURICE.     Thorfii  not  ambitious. 

CLARICE.  But  for  thee,  Norman  ; 

If  that,  in  service  at  thy  shrine  of  glory, 
Thou  dost  not  lose  the  love — 

MAURICE.  Be  satisfied 

That,  when  my  state  is  proudest,  thou  shalt  be 
The  one,  whom,  most  of  all,  these  eyes  shall  look  for, 
This  heart  still  follow  with  devoted  service. 
But,  to  thy  preparations  :  I  will  follow ;- — 

Before  the  dawn  we  shall  have  left  this  city.  [Clarice  going. 

That  reptile —  [musingly^ 

CLARICE,  [returning^]     Norman ! 

MAURICE.     My  Clarice  !     [embracing  her.  [Exit  Clarice. 

His  fangs  are  drawn ! — 
Yet,  somehow,  he  is  present  to  my  thoughts, 
As  if  he  still  had  power.     But,  let  him  dare, 
Once  more  to  cross  my  path,  and  he  shall  feel 
His  serpent  head  grow  flat  beneath  my  heel.  [Exit  within. 


END     OF     ACT    FIRST. 


30  NORMAN    MAURICE. 


ACT   II.— SCENE   I. 

Scene:   Missouri.     A  room  in  the  cottage  of  Norman  Maurice. 
Enter  Maurice  and  Clarice. 

CLARICE.     Oil !     Norman,  this  is  happiness. 

MAURICE.  'Tis  more, — 

Security  in  happiness.     Our  blossoms 
Fear  not  the  spoiler.     On  your  cheek  the  roses 
Declare  a  joyous  presence  in  the  heart, 
That  makes  our  cottage  bloom. 

CLARICE.         You  triumph  too, 
In  favor  as  in  fortune.     On  all  sides 
I  hear  your  name  reechoed  with  a  plaudit, 
That  fills  my  bosom  with  exulting  raptures 
I  never  knew  before. 

MAURICE.  Ah  !  this  is  nothing, 

Dear  heart,  to  the  sweet  peace  that  crowns  our  dwelling, 
And  tells  us,  though  the  tempest  growls  afar, 
Its  thunders  strike  not  here.     The  fame  I  covet 
Is  still  in  tribute  subject  to  your  joys  ; 
And,  these  secure — you,  happy  in  my  bosom — 
My  pride  forgets  its  aim  !     Ambition  slumbers 
Nor  makes  me  once  forgetful  of  the  rapture, 
That  follows  your  embrace.  \Knoc~k  without. 

CLARICE.     The  widow  Pressley. 

MAURICE.     Quick,  welcome  her. — Poor  woman,  we  will  save  her. 

CLARICE.     I  joy  to  hear  you  say  so. — Come  in,  madam. 

Enter  Widow  Pressley  and  Kate. 

MAURICE.     Welcome,  dear  madam  ;  you  must  needs  be  anxious  ; 
But  still  be  hopeful.     I  have  brought  the  action, 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  31 

And  doubt  not,  from  my  study  of  your  case, 

That  we  shall  gain  it — put  the  usurper  out, 

And  win  you  back  some  portion  of  your  wealth. 

The  truth  is  on  our  side, — the  evidence 

Sustains  your  claim  most  amply.     We  shall  gain  it ! 

WIDOW.     Alas  !  sir,  but  the  power  of  this  bad  man — 

MAURICE.     Need  not  be  powerful  here. 

WIDOW.  You  know  it  not ; — 

His  wealth,  his  violence — 

MAURICE.  Will  scarce  prevail, 

A¥IDOW.     He  buys  or  bullies  justice  at  his  pleasure ; 
No  lawyer  here  would  undertake  my  case 
Lest  he  should  lose  a  friend  or  make  a  foe ; 
And  thus,  for  fifteen  years — 

MAURICE.  He  buys  not  me, 

And  scarce  will  profit  by  an  insolence, 
That  hopes  to  bully  here. 

WIDOW.  Oh  !  sir,  I  tremble, 

And  cannot  help  but  doubt.     I  know  your  talents ; 
All  people  speak  of  them, — and  yet  I  fear ! 
With  hopes  so  often  lifted  and  defeated, 
How  should  I  dream  of  better  fortune  now  ? 
The  widow  and  the  orphan  find  small  favor, 
In  struggle  with  the  strong  and  selfish  man ; 
And  this  success  you  promise — 

MAURICE.  None  may  take 

The  sovereign  accent  from  the  lip  of  Fate 
And  say — this  thing  is  written  certainly — 
But,  if  I  err  not,  madam,  better  promise, 
Of  the  clear  dawn  and  the  unclouded  sunshine, 
Ne'er  waited  on  the  night.     I  trust  the  Jury. 
They  have  no  fears  to  nurse,  and  seek  no  favors, 
As  do  that  class  of  men,  the  mean  ambitious, 
Who,  for  the  lowly  greed  of  appetite, 


32  NO  EM  AN    MAUEICE. 

Or  hungering  for  a  state  they  never  merit, 
Cringe  with  a  servile  zeal  to  wealth  and  numbers, 
And  nothing  show  but  baseness  when  they  rise. 
.  My  faith  is  in  the  people. 

WIDOW.     Mine  in  you,  sir. 

MAURICE.     I  will  deserve  your  confidence.    This  person, 
Who  robb'd  you  of  your  fortune,  would  but  vainly 
Attempt  to  bully  me.     I  am  no  bjilly, 
But  something  have  I  in  my  soul  which  strengthens 
Its  courage,  when  the  insolent  would  dare 
Usurp  the  rights  that  I  am  set  to  guard. 
Be  hopeful,  madam.     Take  no  care  for  the  morrow, 
Though,  with  the  morrow,  our  great  trial  comes  1 
God  and  his  angels  keep  the  innocent, 
And,  in  his  own  good  season,  will  redress 
Their  many  wrongs  with  triumph. 

WIDOW.  Sir,  I  thank  you ; — 

And  this  poor  child,  the  child  of  bitterness,. 
If  not  of  wrath,  shall  bless  yon  in  her  prayers,, 
That  nightly  seek  her  mother  in  the  heavens  I 

MAURICE,  [kissing  the  child.]    Your  name  is  Kate,  the}?-  tell  me- 

a  sweet  name ! 

You'll  pray  for  us  to-night,  Kate.     With  the  morrow,, 
If  my  heart's  hope  do  not  deceive  my  heart, 
Your  prayers  shall  all  be  answer'd. — I'll  think  of  her, 
And  of  her  sweet  and  innocent  face  to-morrow, 
When  striving  with  her  enemy. 

KATE.  Ill  pray,  sir, 

As  if  you  were  my  father. 

WIDOW.     She  has  none,  sir. 

MAURICE.     Losing  or  winning,  daughter,  still  in  me, 
Look  for  a  father  who  will  cherish  you. 

WIDOW.     Farewell,  good  sir,  I  have  not  words  to  thank  yoo. 

MAURICE.     You  have  a  heart  that  overflows  with  speech, 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  33 

And  swells  into  your  eyes !     No  more,  dear  madam : 

Be  hopeful  and  be  happy.  [Exeunt  widow  and  child. 

We  must  gain  it. 

The  proofs  are  clear — I  cannot  doubt  the  issue, — 
And  still  a  prescient  something  at  my  heart, 
Awakes  its  triumph  with  assuring  accents 
That  never  spoke  in  vain.     But,  who  are  these  ? 

[Enter  Col.  Mercer  and  Brooks. 
Welcome,  gentlemen. 

MERCER.     We  trust,  sir,  that  you  see  in  us  your  friends. 

MAURICE.     Such,  since  our  brief  acquaintance,  you  have  seemed, 

sir, 

And  mine's  a  heart  preferring  to  confide ; 
That  still  would  rather  suffer  wrong  of  faith, 
Than  not  believe  in  man, 

MERCER.  You'll  find  us  true ; — 

And  thus  it  is,  that,  sure  of  our  good  purpose, 
We  come  to  counsel  with  you  as  a  friend. 

MAURICE.     As  friends,  I  welcome  you.     Be  seated,  sirs. 

BROOKS.     We  do  regard  you,  sir,  as  one  to  help  us, — 
In  public  matters.     From  our  knowledge  of  you, 
We've  said  among  our  friends,  this  is  our  man  ; 
And,  looking  still  to  you  to  serve  our  people, 
We  hear  with  grief  that  you  are  in  a  peril 
Whose  straits,  perchance,  you  know  not. 

MAURICE.     Peril,  sir  ? 

BROOKS.     You  have  brought  action  for  the  widow  Pressley, 
For  the  recovery  of  a  large  possession, 
Withheld  by  Colonel  Blasinghame — 

MAURICE.  'Tis  true,  sir, 

MERCER.     You  do  not  know  this  man. 

MAURICE.     I've  heard  of  him. 

MERCER.     But  not  that  he  is  one  whom  men  find  prudent 
To  pass  with  civil  aspect,  nor  confront 

2* 


34:  NORMANMAUKICE. 

"With  wrath  or  opposition.     He  has  power, 
Such  as  few  men  possess,  or  dare  contend  with — 
Has  wealth  in  great  abundance — is  a  person, 
Most  fearless  and  most  desperate  in  battle, 
Who  better  loves  the  conflict  with  his  fellow 
Than  any  gifts  that  peaceful  life  can  bring ; 
Endow'd  with  giant  strength  and  resolution, 
And  such  a  shot,  from  five  to  fifteen  paces, 
As  still  to  shatter,  wavering  in  the  wind, 
The  slenderest  wand  of  willow. 

MAURICE.     Famous  shooting ! 

BROOKS.     It  were  not  wise  to  wake  his  enmity  1 
We  look  to  you  to  serve  our  cause  in  Congress — 
Make  him  your  foe,  and  he  opposes  you ; 
His  wealth — his  popularity — the  terrors, 
His  very  name  provokes, — all  leagued  against  you — 
You  still  a  stranger. 

MAURICE.  Patiently,  I  hear ; 

And  though  I  feel  not  like  solicitude 
With  that  you  show  for  me,  am  grateful  for  it ! 
And  now,  sirs,  let  us  understand  each  other. 
I  am  a  man  who,  in  pursuit  of  duty, 
Will  hold  no  parley  with  that  week  day  prudence 
Which  teaches  still  how  much  a  virtue  costs. 
Of  this  man,  Blasinghame,  I've  heard  already, — 
Even  as  you  both  describe  him.     It  would  seern, 
Lest  I  should  fail  in  utter  ignorance, 
He  took  a  patient  trouble  on  himself, 
To  school  me  in  his  virtues.     Read  this  letter.  [gives  letter. 

MERCER.   ) 

>-  His  hand  ! — his  signature  !          [they  read. 

MAURICE.     Well,  gentlemen,  you  see  it  written  there, 
What  are  my  dangers  if  I  dare  to  venture 
This  widow's  cause  against  him.     Favor  me, 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  35 

And  read  the  answer  which  has  just  been  written. 

MERCER,  [reads  aloud.']  Sir : — The  suit  of  Pressley  vs.  Blasing- 
hame  will  be  prosecuted  to  conclusion,  without  regard  to  conse- 
quences, with  the  best  strength  and  abilities  of 

NORMAN  MAURICE. 

MAURICE.     It  is  brief,  sir. 

BROOKS.     'Tis  a  defiance,  Maurice ! 

MAURICE.     'Twas  meant  so,  gentlemen.     I  am  a  man, 
Or  I  am  nothing !     This  poor  widow's  cause, 
The  very  insolence  of  this  Blasinghame, 
Hath  made  my  own  !     I'll  die  for  it  if  need  be. 

MERCER.     Art  principled  'gainst  the  duel  ? 

MAURICE.  Rather  ask, 

If,  when  my  enemy  takes  me  by  the  throat, 
I  do  oppose  him  with  an  homily. 
No  man  shall  drive  me  from  society ! — 
I  take  the  laws  I  find  of  force,  and  use  them, 
For  my  protection  and  defence,  as  others 
Employ  them  for  assault. 

MERCER.     You've  practised  then  ? 

MAURICE.     Never  shot  pistol. 

BROOKS.     Nor  rifle  ? 

MAURICE.     Scarcely ! 

MERCER.     You  are  very  rash,  sir  ! 

MAURICE.  Ay !  but  rashness,  sir, 

Becomes  a  virtue  in  a  case  like  this ; 
And  the  brave  heart,  untaught  in  human  practice, 
Finds  good  assurance  from  another  source 
That  prompts  its  action  right.     This  letter's  written, 
And  goes  within  the  hour.     Let  Blasinghame 
Chafe  as  he  may,  and  thunder  to  the  terror, 
Of  those  who  have  no  manhood  in  themselves  j — 
He  thunders  at  these  portals  still  in  vain  ! 
To-morrow  comes  the  trial — after  that ! — 


36  NORMAN    MA  US  ICE. 

But  let  tlie  future  wear  what  look  it  may, 
I'll  find  the  heart  to  meet  it — as  a  man  I 

MERCER.     Then  you  are  firm  ? 

MAURICE.  As  are  the  rocks, 

In  conflict  with  the  sea. 

MERCER.  We  joy  to  find  you  thus  I 

We'll  stand  by  you  through  danger  to  the  last. 

BROOKS.    Ay,  Maurice,  we  are  with  you. 

MAURICE.  Friends,  your  hands  ! — 

I  am  not  used  to  friendship,  but  I  love  it, 
As  still  a  precious  gift,  vouchsafed  by  heaven, 
Next  best  to  love  of  woman !     For  this  danger, — 
Fear  nothing !  we  shall  'scape  it  1     Nay,  'twill  give 
Or  truth  is  not  of  God,  new  plumes  for  triumph ! 


SCENE   II, 

The  law  office  of  Richard   Osborne.      Osborne  discovered  writing. 
Enter  Warren. 

WARREN.     We're  on  the  track  at  last,     Look  at  that  letter  ; 
It  comes  from  our  old  comrade,  Harry  Matthews, 
And  tells  us  miracles  of  Norman  Maurice  \ — 
Our  worthy  cousin  has  the  run  of  fortune ; — 
She  seems  to  crown  him  with  her  richest  favors, 
As  some  old  bawd,  grown  hackneyM  in  the  market, 
Adopts  a  virgin  passion  in  her  dotage, 
And  yields  to  her  late  folly,  all  the  profits 
That  follow'd  the  old  vice.     He's  growing  finely ; 
But  I  shall  dock  his  feathers. 

OSBORNE.  \reading^\     In  Missouri. 

WARREN.     Ay,  in  St.  Louis,  that  great  western  city, 


N  OEM  AN    MAUBICE.  37 

Our  worthy  cousin,  Norman,  has  grown  famous ! 

You  read  what  Matthews  writes.     In  one  short  twelvemonth 

He  springs  above  all  shoulders. 

OSBORNE.  I  look'd  for  it ! 

He's  not  the  man  whom  fortune  can  keep  under. 

WARREN.     What !  you  forget  our  precious  document  ? 

OSBORNE.     You  will  not  use  it  now  ? 

WARREN.  Ah,  will  I  not  then  ? 

If  ever  useful,  HOW'S  the  right  time  for  it ! 
See  you  not  that  he  rises  like  an  eagle, 
Already  is  in  practice  with  the  ablest, 
Wins  popular  favor  'without  working  for  it, 
^And  stands  i'  the  way  of  better  politicians  ? 
They  fit  his  name  to  music  for  bad  singers, 
To  whom  none  listen  save  at  suffrage  time. — 
We'll  spoil  the  song  for  him. 

OSBORNE.     What  would  you  do  ? 

WARREN.     You  are  dull,  Dick  Osborne !    Have  I  yet  to  tell  you 
That,  over  all,  conspicuous  in  my  hate, 
This  minion  of  Fortune  stands.    His  better  luck 
Hath  robb'd  me  of  the  prize  which  most  I  treasured — 
His  better  genius  trampled  mine  to  dust, — 
Humbled  my  pride  when  at  its  height,  and  crush'd  me, 
Until  I  learn'd  to  loathe  myself,  as  being 
So  feeble  in  his  grasp. 

OSBORNE.     He  crushes  you  no  longer ! 

WARREN.     Can  I  forget  the  past  ?     This  memory 
Becomes  a  part  of  the  nature  o'  the  man, 
And  of  his  future  makes  a  fearful  aspect, 
Unless  ho  cures  its  hurts.     My  path  is  where 
My  enemy  treads  in  triumph  !     I  shall  seek  it, 
And  'twill  be  hard  if  hate,  well  leagued  with  cunning, 
Is  baffled  of  his  toil.     I  seek  St*  Louis ! 

OSBORNE.    Beware !    You'll  make  him  desperate ! 


38  NOKMAN     MAURICE. 

WARREN.     I  hope  so ! 

OSBORNE.     It  brings  its  perils  with  it !     Norman  Maurice 
Will  rend  his  hunter  ! — 

WARREN.     If  he  be  not  wary ! 
But,  fear  you  nothing.     You  shall  go  with  me, 
And  see  how  deftly,  with  what  happy  art, 
I  shall  prepare  the  meshes  for  my  captive. 

OSBORNE.     Me !  go  with  you  ? — and  wherefore  ? 

WARREN.  A  small  matter ! — 

While  I  shall  drive  the  nail,  you'll  clinch  the  rivet. 
I'd  have  you  there  to  prove  this  document ! 

OSBORNE.     Spare  me  this,  Warren  ! 

WARREN.     I  can  spare  you  nothing. 

OSBORNE.     I  do  not  hate  this  man !     He  hath  not  wrong'd  me, 
Cross'd  not  my  path,  nor,  with  a  better  fortune, 
Won  from  me  aught  I  cherish'd. 

WARREN.  Enough  !     Enough  ! — 

Me  hath  he  robb'd  and  wrong' d — me  hath  he  cross'd — 
His  better  fortune  still  a  fate  to  mine  ! — 
My  injury  is  yours !     You  love  me,  Osborne, — 
Will  do  the  thing  that  I  regard  as  needful, 
The  more  especially  as  you  have  secrets, 
No  less  than  Norman  Maurice.     We  shall  go, 
Together,  as  I  fancy,  to  St.  Louis  ! 

OSBORNE.     This  is  mere  tyranny,  Warren. 

WARREN.  Very  like  it ! 

Guilt  ever  finds  its  tyrant  in  its  secret, 
And,  twinn'd  with  every  crime,  the  accuser  stands, 
Its  own  grim  shadow,  with  the  scourge  and  torture. 

OSBORNE.     A  dark  and  damnable  truth  !     Would  I  had  perisliM 
Ere  I  had  fallen,  and  follow'd,  as  you  bade  me  ! 

WARREN.     Spare  the  vain  toil  to  cheat  a  troubled  conscience, 
And  to  your  preparations.     By  the  morrow, 
We'll  be  upon  the  road. 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  39 

OSBORNE.     But,  for  these  papers  ? 

WARREN.     Confound  the  papers  !     They  will  wait  for  us, 
But  opportunity  never !     Get  you  ready, 
And  hush  all  vain  excuses.     If  my  sway 
Be  somewhat  tyrannous,  still  it  hath  its  profits  : — 
Be  you  but  true,  and  from  the  Egyptian  spoil, 
There  shall  be  still  sufficient  for  your  toil.  [Exit  Warren. 

OSBORNE.    I'm  chain'd  to  the  stake !  He  hath  me  in  his  power ! — 
How  truly  hath  he  pictured  my  estate ! — 
Thus  he  who  doth  a  deed  of  ill  in  youth, 
Raises  a  ghost  no  seventy  years  can  lay ! 
I  must  submit ;  yet,  following  still  his  lead, 
Pray  Providence  for  rescue,  ere  too  late : — 
'Tis  Providence,  alone,  may  baffle  Fate  !  [Exit  Osborne. 


SCENE    III. 

The  house  of  Mrs.  Jervas  in  Walnut-street.     Enter  Mrs.  J.  and 
Robert  Warren. 

MRS.  J..    Art  sure  of  what  you  tell  me  ? 

WARREN.  Never  doubt  it ! — 

Matthews,  who  writes  me,  is  an  ancient  friend 
Who  knows  this  Maurice  well.     He  sees  him  often, 
Though  it  would  seem  that  Maurice  knows  not  him. 

O 

His  rising  fortunes  favor  you  !     'Twere  well 
You  sought  your  niece.     You  are  her  kinswoman, — 
The  nearest, — and  the  loss  of  all  your  fortune, 
By  failure  of  the  bank — 

MRS.  J.     But  Maurice  likes  me  not ! 

WARREN.     Natural  enough  !     You  still  opposed  his  passion  ; 
things  are  alter'd  now.     You've  but  to  show  him 


40  NORMAN    MAURICE. 

'Twas  for  your  niece's  good,  in  your  best  judgment, 
That  you  denied  his  suit.     But,  go  to  her  ; — 
He's  doing  well — is  popular — grows  wealthy ; 
And  now  that  Fortune  looks  with  smiles  on  him, 
He  well  may  smile  on  you  !     You'll  live  with  them, 
And  we  shall  meet  there. 

MRS.  J.    We  ?     Meet  2 

WARREN.     Did  I  not  love  her  ? 

MRS.  J.  Ah  I— 

WARREN.     And  should  he  die  ? — Should  accident,  or — 

MRS.  J.     I  see  !     I  see  ! 

WARREN.     You  are  my  friend,  and  you  will  show  her — 

MRS.  J.     Ah  !  trust  me,  Robert  Warren — 

WARREN.         That's  enough  ! 
We  understand  each  other.     You  will  go, — 
Her  only  kinswoman — to  seek  her  out. 
You  have  but  her  in  the  world  !     Say  you  have  err'd  ; 
It  was  because  you  loved  her  that  you  strove, 
'Gainst  one,  who,  whatsoe'er  his  worth  and  talent, 
Was  not  o'erbless'd  by  Fortune  !     He  may  frown, 
But  cannot  well  deny  you  ;  and,  for  Clarice — 
She  will  not,  sure,  repel  her  mother's  sister. 

MRS.  J.     I'll  go  !     I  need  the  succor  of  my  kindred. 

WARREN.  We'll  meet  then  ;  but  you  must  not  know  me  there 
'Tis  not  my  policy  to  vex  my  rival, 
Provoke  suspicion,  move  his  jealousy, 
Or  startle  her  by  any  bold  renewal , 
Of  pleadings  late  denied.     Should  you  discover 
That  he  who,  in  their  presence,  stands  before  you, 
Is  other  than  he  seems,  you  will  know  nothing  ; 
Since  that  may  spoil  your  game  as  well  as  mine. 

MRS.  J.     You  are  a  deep  one  ! 

WARREIT.  When  I  have  your  counsel ! 

This  Maurice  thought  but  humbly  of  your  judgment. 


NOR MAN    MAURICE  41 

He  knew  you  not  as  I  do.     He  was  blinded 
By  his  own  proud  conceit  and  arrogance, 
And  held  himself  an  oracle.     'Twere  wise 
If  still  you  suffer'd  him  to  fancy  thus — 
Checked  him  in  nothing — never  counsell'd  him — 
For  still  I  know  he  holds  your  wisdom  cheaply, 
And  scorns  the  experience  which  might  rise  against 
His  own  assured  opinion.     Such  a  person 
Needs  but  sufficient  cord — 

MRS.  J.  And  he  shall  have  it ! 

WARREN.     I'll  seek  your  counsel  soon,  and  you  shall  teach  me 
What  is  our  proper  action.     You  will  find  me 
More  ready  to  confide  in  your  experience, 
Than  him  whose  cunning  seem'd  to  baffle  it. 

O 

Farewell  then,  madam,  till  we  meet  again.  [Exit  Warren. 

MRS.  J.     Farewell,  sir  !     A  most  excellent  young  man  ! 
This  Maurice  shall  not  carry  it  at  will, — 
He  scorns  me, — does  he  ?     He  shall  feel  me  still !  [Exit. 


SCENE    IV. 

The  hall  in  the  cottage  of  Norman  Maurice.  Time — midnirjld. 
Enter  Maurice  in  night-gown,  as  just  started  from  his  couch. 
His  hair  dishevelled — his  manner  wild  and  agitated — his  whole 
appearance  that  of  a  man  painfully  excited  and  distressed. 

MAURICE.     That  I  should  be  unmann'd  !     That  a  mere  dream, 
The  blear  and  frightful  aspects  of  a  vision, 
Should  rouse  me  to  such  terror, — shake  my  soul 
From  the  strong  moorings  of  a  steadfast  will, 
And  drive  it,  a  mere  wreck,  upon  the  seas, 
No  hand  upon  the  helm  !     Ah  !  my  Clarice.          [Enter  Clarice. 


V2  NORMAN    MAURICE. 

CLARICE.     My  husband — 

MAURICE.     I  would  thou  had'st  not  seen  me  thus,  Clarice. 

CLARICE.     What  means  this  terror — wherefore  did  you  cry 

MAURICE.     Surely  I  did  not. 

CLARICE.  Yes,  a  terrible  shriek, 

As  one  who  rushes  desperate  on  his  foe  ! 

MAURICE.     No  mortal  foe  has  ever  from  my  lips, 
Sleeping  or  waking,  forced  acknowledgment, 
That  humbles  me  like  this — 

CLARICE.  What  dost  thou  mean  ? 

What  fear  ? 

MAURICE.     What  answer  shall  I  make  to  thee  ? — 
How  tell  thee,  my  Clarice,  'twas  a  mere  dream, 
That  filled  me  with  that  agonizing  fear, 
WThose  shriek  thou  heard'st.     Yet,  such  a  dream,  my  wife, 
As  still  pursues  me  with  its  hideous  forms, 
And  shakes  me  yet  with  terror.     That  a  man, 
Conscious  of  strength  and  will,  with  conscience  free, 
Should,  in  a  mere  disorder  of  his  blood, 
In  midnight  sleep,  feel  all  his  soul  unsinew'd, 
And  sink  into  the  coward  ! 

CLARICE.     Thou  art  none  ! 

MAURICE.     Yet  such  a  vision — and  methinks  I  see  ! — 
Hist, — is  there  nothing  crawling  by  the  hearth, 
Crouching  and  winding,  and  with  serpent  folds, 
Preparing  its  dread  venom  ? 

CLARICE.  There  is  nothing,  husband — 

The  hearth  holds  only  the  small  jar  of  flowers. 

MAURICE.     The  reptile  ever  seeks  such  crouching  place, 
And  garbs  his  spotty  hide  with  heedless  blossoms, 
That  know  not  what  they  harbor.     Fling  it  hence  ! 
Twos  on  the  hearth  it  crouch'd.     But,  hear  me,  wife  ; 
That  dream  !     'Twas  of  a  serpent  on  our  hearth, 
Thou  heedless,  with  thy  hand  upon  the  flowers, 


NORMAN    MAURICE. 

Disposing  them  for  show.     Unseen  and  soft — 

It  wound  about  thee  its  insidious  coil, 

And,  at  the  moment  when  I  first  beheld, 

Its  brazen  head  was  lifted,  its  sharp  fang 

Was  darting  at  thy  heart !     'Twas  then  I  shriek'd 

And  rush'd  upon  the  monster  thus,  and  smote  ! — 

[Dashing  the  vase  to  pieces. 
Heedless  of  every  sting,  I  trampled  it ; 
But,  even  as  it  writhed  beneath  my  heel, 
Methought,  it  lifted  up  a  human  face 
That  look'd  like  Robert  Warren  ! 

CLARICE.     What  a  dream  ! 

MAURICE.     I  cannot  shake  it  off.     Did'st  hear  a  sound 
Most  like  a  hiss  ? 

CLARICE.     Nay,  nay  !  'twas  but  a  dream  ! 
Come — come  to  bed. 

MAURICE.     Why  should  I  dream  of  him  ? 

CLARICE.     You  think  of  him,  perchance. 

MAURICE.  And,  as  a  reptile ! 

The  terrible  image  still  before  me  crawls — 
Oh  !  that  I  might,  with  but  a  bound  and  struggle, 
Though  still  at  life's  worst  peril,  trample  him  ! 

CLARICE.     Yet  wherefore  ? 

MAURICE.     There  are  instincts  of  the  soul, 
That  have  a  deep  and  true  significance, 
And,  though  no  more  in  danger  from  his  malice, 
I  feel  within  me  that  he  works  unsleeping, 
In  venomous  toils  against  me. 

CLARICE.  But,  in  vain. 

Come,  Norman,  come  to  bed.     You  frighten  me. 

MAURICE.     Forgive  me  !     There  !     I  have  thee  at  my  lips, 
I  strain  thee  to  my  bosom  with  a  joy 
That  leaves  no  rapture  wanting — yet,  methinks, 
I  hear  a  sound  of  hissing,  and  still  see 


44  NOKMAN    MAUEICE. 

Glimpses  of  folding  serpents  that,  behind, 
Crawl  after  us — 

CLARICE.     My  Norman  ! 

MAURICE.  I  grieve  thee  ! 

I  will  forget  this  vision  in  the  blessing 
This  grasp  makes  real  to  rapture.     Let  us  in. 

[Refolds  his  arm  about  her,  and  they  leave  the  apartment,  he 
looking  behind  him  suspiciously — she  looking  up  to  him. 


SCENE    V. 

The  edge  of  a  wood.  A  cottage  in  the  distance.  Enter  Robert 
Warren,  Osborne,  and  Harry  Matthews.  The  former  disguised 
with  false  hair,  whiskers,  d*c. 

MATTHEWS,  [pointing  to  cottage. ,]     Look! — you  may  see  it  now  ! 

WARREN.     There,  then,  he  harbors  ? 
A  goodly  cottage — he's  a  man  of  taste, 
Not  yet  too  old  for  sentiment,  it  seems  ; 
Loves  flowers  and  shade  trees,  and  around  his  porches 
I  fancy  that  we  see  some  gadding  tendrils, 
That  wanton,  with  full  censers,  in  his  homage ! 
He  should  be  happy  there ! 

MATTHEWS.     Why,  so  he  is. 

WARREN.     You  think  so  ? 

MATTHEWS.     There's  every  thing  to  make  him  so.    lie's  young — 
Is  on  the  road  to  fortune  and  to  fame, 
And  has  a  handsome  wife. 

WARREN.  The  landscape's  fair, — 

Looks  bright  beneath  the  sunshine  and  exhales 
A  thousand  delicate  odors  rich  in  life ; 
But,  sometimes,  there's  a  tempest  in  the  night, 
And  where's  your  landscape  then  ? 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  45 

MATTHEWS.  Be  this  his  case, 

It  shall  not  cost  me  one  poor  hour  of  sleep, 
For  all  the  coil  it  makes.     This  man's  our  foe, — 
Goes  with  our  enemies  in  politics, 
And  will,  though  now  he  knows  it  not  himself, 
Be  run,  against  our  crack  man,  for  the  Senate. 

WARREN.     Who's  he  ? 

MATTHEWS.     Ben  Ferguson. 

WARREN.     Plain  Ben  ? 

MATTHEWS.  Colonel  Ben  ! 

Tis  only  when  the  man's  a  favorite, 
We  take  the  formal  handle  from  his  name 
And  sing  it  short  for  sweetness. 

WARREN.     Is  he  able  ? 

MATTHEWS.     We  thought  him  so  till  this  your  Maurice  came  ; — 
Since  then  our  favorite  loses  in  the  race. 
Ben  is  a  lawyer  in  first  practice  here 
And  had  the  field  to  himself  since  I  have  known  him, 
Till  now— 

OSBORNE.     Maurice  and  he  have  grappled  then  ? 

MATTHEWS.     To  Ferguson's  defeat. 

OSBORNE.     Before  the  jury  ? 

MATTHEWS.     Ay,  every  way — before  the  judge  and  jury, — 
In  court  and  out  of  court.     At  public  meetings 
They  were  in  opposite  ranks,  and,  with  each  issue, 
Maurice  hath  risen  still  in  popular  favor, 
While  Ferguson  declines.     It  will  rejoice  us, 
If,  as  you  say,  you  have  some  history 
To  floor  this  powerful  foe  ! 

WARREN.     You  need  not  doubt  it. 
But  who  are  Mends  to  Maurice,  here, — the  people  ? 

MATTHEWS.     Were  it  the  people  only,  it  were  nothing. 
They  have  not  yet  arisen  to  self-esteem, 
And,  kept  full  fed  on  vanity,  are  heedless, 


46  NORMAN    MAUK  ICE. 

Hugging  their  shadows,  how  they  lose  the  substance. 

Here,  all  their  sympathies  are  held  by  others ; 

Men  of  much  wealth  and  some  ability, 

Who,  gladly,  in  this  Maurice  find  an  ally, 

And  join  with  him  to  use  him.     There's  a  party 

Who  long  have  lacked  a  leader.     Norman  Maurice 

Brings  them  the  head  they  seek.     He  guides  their  councils, 

And,  with  such  prudent  skill  and  policy, 

That  still  they  fancy  he  is  but  their  mouth-piece, 

Even  while  he  gives  the  breath  of  life  to  them. 

I  know  that  they  will  run  him  for  the  Senate. 

WARREN.     Can  they  elect  him  ? 

MATTHEWS.         It  is  somewhat  doubtful. 
They  never  yet  succeeded  with  their  man, 
Not-  having  had  the  man  to  make  success. 
What  they  can  do  for  him  is  not  the  question, 
So  much  as  what  he  may  achieve  for  them. 
I  tell  you,  though  not  fearful  for  the  issue, 
It  makes  us  something  anxious.     Now, — this  secret — 
If  it  be  true,  indeed,  that, — 

WARREN.  Be  you  ready  ; — 

I'll  see  your  friends  to-morrow.     We'll  sleep  on  it. 
To-night,  I'll  fathom  Maurice  if  I  can, 
And  see  how  he  enjoys  his  Western  life. 
Enough  !     I  have  him  in  my  power  !     To-morrow  ! — 

MATTHEWS.     But  what's  the  secret  ? 

WARREN.         It  will  keep  till  then. 
Be  sure,  that  when  your  game  is  to  be  play'd — 
When  Norman  Maurice,  at  the  height  of  favor, 
Waits  but  the  will  to  rise  up  Senator — 
A  single  word  shall  damn  him  down  to  ruin, 
And  stifle  every  voice  that  shouts  his  name. 

OSBORNE.     Yet,  once  more,  Warren,  ere  it  be  too  late, 
Let  me  entreat  and  counsel — 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  47 

WARREN.  You  are  doting  ! 

Go  you  with  Matthews,  and,  should  I  be  missing, 
You  both  can  tell  whither  my  steps  were  bent, 
And  what  my  power  upon  him. 

OSBORNE.  [aside  to  W.]  Why  incur 

This  danger, — for  you  too  must  see  the  danger, — 
To  feed  this  foolish  malice  ? 

WARREN,  [aside  to  0.]     Is  it  foolish  ? — 
Not  when  the  profit's  yours,  the  pleasure  mine  ; — 
And  I,  if  fortune  mocks  me  not  with  fancies, 
Shall  find  a  pleasure  in  the  game  I  play  at, 
That  you  may  never  dream  of !     Be  you  easy — 
There's  little  danger  !     I've  securities 
'Gainst  him  in  you,  and  in  his  secret  fears, 
Not  less  than  in  the  policy  I  use ; 
Besides,  my  habit,  does  it  not  disguise  me  ? 

OSBORNE.     He  has  the  eye  of  an  eagle  ! 

WARREN.     Pshaw ! 

OSBORNE.  Beware ! — 

His  genius — you  yourself  confess  it,  Warren — 
Hath  always,  when  the  final  issue  came, 
Soar'd  over  you  triumphant ! 

WARREN.  Oh  !     Good  night. 

We'll  meet  again  to-morrow  !  [Ex-it  Warren. 

OSBORNE.  He'll  pay  for  it ! 

He  runs  on  ruin  ! 

MATTHEWS.     Not  his  own,  methinks  ! 

OSBORNE.     His  own,  though  now  it  seems  not.     I've  an  instinct 
That  tells  me  Maurice  cannot  be  o'erthrown. 
Baffled  he  may  be ; — you  may  torture  him — 
Deny  him  his  just  place  and  high  position, 
One  or  more  seasons  ;  but  he'll  rise  at  last, 
So  firmly,  that  the  very  hands  that  struggle 
To  tear  him  from  his  throne,  will  help  to  build  it. 


48  N  O  E  M  A  N    M  A  U  K  I  C  E  . 

There  are  some  men  to  whom  the  fates  decree 

Performance, — and  this  man  is  one  of  them  ! 

What  was  his  prospect  when  I  knew  him  first  ? 

He  had  no  friends, — he  had  no  fellowships, 

No  heedful  care  of  parents — no  tuition  ; — 

He  stood  alone  i'  the  world — unknown,  unhonor'd — 

Nay,  something  hated,  as  I  hap  to  know, 

For  that  he  had  some  innate  qualities, 

Of  pride,  of  strength,  of  soul  and  character, 

That  would  not  let  him  stoop  !     In  spite  of  all, 

He  hath  struggled  through  the  strife  and  the  obstruction  ; 

Won  friends  ;  won  homage  ;  high  position  won  ; 

And  still  hath  grown,  the  more  erect  and  noble. 

At  each  assault  upon  his  pride  and  fortune  ! 

I  feel  that  he  must  triumph  ! 

MATTHEWS.  You  speak  well, 

The  promise  of  our  enemy  !     You  differ, 
Somewhat,  from  Robert  Warren  ;  yet,  you  know 
This  secret. 

OSBORNE.     Ay — as  Warren's  ;  and  I  know, 
The  rise  of  Maurice  is  his  overthrow  !  [.Exeunt. 


SCENE    VI. 

The  interior  of  the  cottage  of  Norman  Maurice.  A  table  spre<i<!  «* 
if  supper  were  just  concluded.  Maurice  and  Clarice  discovered 
seated.  Maurice  balances  a  spoon  upon  the  cup.  Clarice  watches 
him. 

CLARICE.  You  muse,  my  husband. 

MAURICE,  [pushing  away  the  cup.]     'Tis  with  happiness  ! 
Know  you,  Clarice,  that  fifteen  months  have  pass'd 
Since  we  were  married  ? 


NORMAN    MAUEICE, 

CLARICE.  Is  it  possible  I 

I  had  not  thought  it  I 

MAURICE.     Time  is  wing'd  with  pleasure, 
When  that  the  heart,  reposing  where  it  loves, 
Finds  strength  for  fresher  love  in  faith  secure  1 
The  world  would  seem  to  smile  on  me  at  last } 
'Till  we  were  wedded,  such  had  been  my  fortune, 
I  question'd  still  the  sunshine  when  it  came ; 
And,  in  its  sudden  and  capricious  beauty, 
Still  dreaded  something  sinister  and  hostile. 
But  now  I  feel  secure  1     With  you  beside  me, 
A  fair,  free  world  before  me,  and  employment, 
-Grateful  at  once  to  intellect  and  feeling, 
Affording  thought  due  exercise  for  triumph, 
Methinks,  I  have  from  fate  a  guaranty, 
That  she  foregoes  at  last  her  ancient  grudges ; 
And,  it  may  be,  despising  our  ambition, 
Thus  easily  satisfied  with  love  and  quiet, 
Turns  her  sharp  arrows  on  some  nobler  victim, 
Whose  young  audacity  offends  her  pride  1 
Sure,  Clarice,  this  is  happiness. 

CLARICE,  It  is  more  1 

Such  happiness  as  well  might  task  the  fancy, 
To  wing  with  words  of  sweetest  poesy. 

MAURICE,     Then  sing  for  me.     I'm  in  the  mood  for  music  *, 
My  heart  is  glad  ;  my  thoughts  would  wander  freely ; 
Commercing  with  the  indistinct,  but  sweet. 

CLARICE.     Nay,  Norman,  nay:  I'm  selfish  in  my  gladness; 
You  sing  not ;  but  a  something  more  than  music 
Swells  in  the  verse  that  gathers  on  your  lips  ; — 
And  this  reminds  me  of  the  little  ballad 
You  promised  me, — once  half  recited  me, 
And  fain  would  have  me  think  your  heart  conceived  it 
When  first  it  grew  to  mine ! 

VOL.  i  3 


50  NORMAN    MAURICE. 

MAURICE.         And  I  said  truly ! 

Thoughts  passing  fair  had  floated  through  my  fancy — 
Thoughts  born  of  warmest  tastes  and  pure  affections, 
Which  yet  had  found  no  name  !     I  had  strange  visions 
Of  grace  and  feminine  beauty,  such  as  never 
The  world  had  shown  me  living.     Then  I  met  thee, 
And,  on  the  instant,  did  they  take  thy  image  ; — 
And  thus  I  first  knew  how,  and  whom,  to  love  I 
These  fancies  did  I  body  forth  in  verses, 
As  one  records  a  vision  of  the  midnight, 
That  fills  his  soul  with  marvels ;  and  the  hour, 
That  brought  me  first  acquainted  with  thy  beauties, 
Taught  me  what  name  to  write  above  my  record, 
"Which,  until  then,  had  none. 

CLARICE.     Norman — was  it  mine  ? 

MAURICE.     Thine,  only,  my  beloved  one  I 

CLARICE.  Now,  the  verses, 

In  thy  best  manner,  Norman. 

MAURICE.     What !  repeat  them  ? — 
Wouldst  ruin  me,  Clarice,  in  public  favor  ; 
Sap  my  distinction,  lose  me  my  profession, 
Draw  down  the  vulgar  laughter  on  my  head, 
And  make  grave  senators  and  learned  statesmen 
Shake  reverend  brows  in  sorrow  at  my  folly  ? 

CLARICE.     Nay,  you  mock  me  now  ? 

MAURICE.  Wouldst  have  a  lawyer, — 

Subtle,  and  stern,  and  disputatious,  still, — 
Full  of  retorts  and  strange  philosophies  ; 
Whose  dreams  by  night  are  of  the  close  encounter 
With  rival  wits  and  wary  adversaries, — 
Whose  thoughts  by  day  are  still  upon  indictments, 
Flaws,  fees,  exceptions,  old  authorities, 
And  worldly  arguments,  and  stubborn  juries, — 
And  all  the  thousand  small  details  that  gather, 


NOEMAN    MAUKICE.  5 

Like  strings  about  the  giant  Gulliver, 

Dragging  and  fettering  down  to  lowly  earth 

The  upsoaring  mind  that  else  might  scale  the  heavens  ! — 

Wouldst  have  him  in  the  vagrancy  of  fancy, 

Possess  his  soul  with  spells  of  poesy ; 

Having  no  fear  that,  lurking  at  his  threshold, 

His  neighbor  Jones  or  Jenkins,  Smith  or  Thompson, 

Some  round  and  fat,  but  most  suspicious  client, 

Bringing  great  fees, — his  heart  upon  his  action, — 

Seeking  the  sourest  aspect  in  his  lawyer, — 

Stands,  rooted,  with  strange  horror,  as  he  listens 

To  most  ridiculous  rhymes,  and  talk  of  flowers, 

Moonbeams,  and  zephyrs — all  that  staple  sweetness, 

That  makes  the  fancies  of  young  thoughtless  bosoms  ; — 

"When  most  he  hoped  to  hear  of  Chose  in  action, 

Trespass,  assumpsit,  action  on  the  case, 

And  other  phrases,  silly  as  the  rhymester's, — 

But  that  they  sound  in  money,  not  in  music  I 

No  !  No  ! — no  poesy !     'Twere  loss  of  client ! 

CLARICE.     Nay,  Norman,  but  you  jest  now  !     Speak  the  verses, 
If  need  be,  in  low  accents. 

MAURICE.  Lest  Jones  or  Jenkins 

Should  turn  about,  possess'd  with  holy  horror, 
And  seek  some  other  lawyer  !     You  shall  have  them  ! 
They  are  yours,  Clarice,  for,  truly,  they  embody 
What  still  meseem'd  the  virtues  of  your  nature  ; — 
Tastes,  sweet  and  delicate  as  evening  glories 
That  tend  upon  the  passage  of  the  day, 
And,  twinn'd  with  gleam  and  shadows,  through  the  twilight, 
Betoken,  as  it  were,  the  unknown  beauties, 
That  make  a  happier  future  in  the  far. 

CLARICE.     You  describe  the  verses  ! 

MAURICE.  It  needs  I  should  ! 

They  take  a  mystic  tone  and  character, 


52  NORMAN    MAUKICE. 

And  ask  the  key-note.     You  will  hardly  like  them  : 

Thoughtful,  not  lyrical,  nor  passionate, 

They  need  that  you  should  pause  upon  each  accent, 

Or  they  will  lose  their  due  significance  ! 

But,  next  to  the  grave  folly  of  such  doing, 

Is  the  grave  preface  that  still  pleads  for  it. 

You  lead  me  erring,  Clarice,  to  these  trifles — 

You,  and  the  exulting  feeling  at  my  heart, 

That  deems  this  happiness  sure  ! — Ha  !     That  knock  ! 

[Knock  at  the  door — Tie  starts. 
Methinks  it  hath  a  meaning  !     A  sharp  instinct 
Tells  me  that  evil  at  our  threshold  lurks.  [  Whispers. 

CLARICE.     Evil,  my  husband  !     Let  me  open  it ! 

[Goes  toward  the  door. 

MAURICE,  [interposing.]     You,  Clarice  !     You  mistake  me. — 

There's  an  instinct, 

That,  though  it  speaks  of  evil,  hath  no  fear  ! — 
Who's  there  ?     [Aloud.] 

Voice  without.     A  friend  ! 

MAURICE,  [throwing  open  the  door]     Enter,  friend  ! 

Enter  Robert  Warren  as  before,  with  valise  in  his  hand. 

WARREN.     Pardon  me  this  intrusion,  but  I'm  wearied, — 
I've  travell'd  far, — the  last  seven  miles  afoot, 
Having  lost  my  horse  by  the  way. 

MAURICE.  You're  welcome,  sir, 

To  our  poor  fare,  and  shelter  of  our  dwelling 
'Till  you  recover.     Clarice,  see  to  it. 
[Maurice  points  her  to  the  supper  table.     She  turns  and  leaves  the 

room, —  Warren  follows  her  with  his  eye,  while  that  of  Maurice 

observes  him. 

WARREN.     I  thank  you,  sir. 

MAURICE.  Meanwhile,  sit  down  and  rest. 

Give  me  your  burden.     'Twill  require  some  minutes 


NOKMAN    MAURICE.  53 

To  get  your  supper,  make  your  chamber  ready  ; 
'Till  then,  forget  your  travel. 

WARREN.  You  are  kind  ! 

How  far,  sir,  are  we  from  St.  Louis,  here  ? 

MAURICE.     Four  miles  only. 

WARREN.  You,  perhaps,  can  tell  me 

Something  of  persons  living  in  St.  Louis  ; 
I'm  a  collector  from  an  Eastern  city, 
And  have  a  claim  upon  one  Harry  Matthews. 

MAURICE.     [His  brow  slightly  contracts.]     Harry  Matthews  ! 

WARREN.     Or  Henry  Matthews  :  is  he  good,  sir  ? 

MAURICE,  [coldly.]     It  may  be,  sir  ;  I  know  not  I 

WARREN.     You  know  the  man  ? 

MAURICE.     I  have  seen  him  often,  sir,  but  know  him  \ 

WARREN.     The  house  I  represent  has  had  suspicions  ; — 
A  Philadelphia  house. 

MAURICE.     Of  Philadelphia ! 

WARREN.     A  famous  city,  sir  ;  but  you  have  seen  it  ? 

MAURICE.     I  know  it  well,  sir.    [  Catches  the  eye  of  Warren,  which 
suddenly  drops  at  the  encounter. 

WARREN.     Ah  !  you've  travell'd  thither  ? 

MAURICE.     Have  lived  there,  sir  ;  and,  now  I  think  of  it, 
It  may  be  you  can  answer  me  of  persons, 
Whom  once  I  knew  there  ; — there  was  Mrs.  Jervas — 

WARREN.     A  widow,  sir,  who  lived  in  Walnut-street  ? 

MAURICE.     The  same  ! — 

WARREN.     I've  heard  of  her.     She  lost  her  fortune  lately 
By  failure  of  the  bank. 

MAURICE.     Indeed ! 

WARREN.  And  has  left  the  city, 

'Twas  said,  to  seek  her  kindred  in  the  West. 

MAURICE.  [To  Clarice,  who  reenters.]     Hear  you  that,  Clarice  ? 

CLARICE.  Is  it  possible  ? 

It  cannot  be  she  means — 


54:  NORMAN    MAURICE. 

MAURICE.     Perhaps.     'Tis  like. 

WARREN.     She  has  a  niece  and  nephew  in  the  West — 
'Twas  so  reported — who  have  sent  for  her, 
They  being  very  wealthy,  she  in  want. 

MAURICE,  [with  a  smile.]     Indeed  ! 

CLARICE.     She  has  no  nephew  living,  sir. 

WARREN,  [smiles]     Ah  !  you  know  her,  then  ? 

MAURICE.     She  is  this  lady's  aunt,  sir ; 
And,  it  may  be,  this  excellent  Mrs.  Jervas 
Comes  hither  to  her  niece,  who  is  my  wife,  sir. 
I  suppose,  that,  as  the  husband  of  the  one, 
I  may  be  held  a  nephew  to  the  other  ; 
And  loving,  too,  makes  kindred.     Well,  Clarice, 
You'll  make  the  good  lady  welcome  if  she  conies, 
Which,  now,  I  scarcely  question. — Tell  me,  sir, 
Of  other  persons  in  that  goodly  city ; — 
There  was  a  mute,  I  knew,  one  Nicholas  Foster, 
Whom  much  I  fancied — 

WARREN.  A  rare  machinist, 

Though  few  conceived  his  talent. 

MAURICE,  [omcfe.]     Yet,  you  knew  it ! 

WARREN.     He's  well  as  ever. 

MAURICE.  Sully,  the  master-painter, 

A  pure,  good  man,  whose  exquisite  art  endows 
The  beauty  with  a  charm  beyond  her  own, 
Caught  from  his  delicate  fancy. 

WARREN.     He's  still  famous. 

MAURICE.     I  would  you  could  say  fortunate  as  famous, 
As  still  his  art  deserves. — I  know  not  why, 
But  these  inquiries  sadden  me,  and  yet — 
There  was  one  Richard  Osborne — 

WARREN.  An  attorney — 

MAURICE.     A  most  obscure  one,  though  of  certain  merits, 
Who  might  have  been  distinguish'd,  having  powers 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  55 

To  raise  him  into  something  high  and  worthy, 
But  for  his  evil  genius — 

WARREN,  [quickly.]     Ah  !  sir  !     He  ? — 

MAURICE.     Were  you  a  student — an  anatomist 
Of  character — instead  of  a  collector  ; — 
But— 

WARREN.     Yet  would  I  hear,  sir. 

MAURICE.  He,  sir,  I  mean, 

Were  one  whom  it  were  well  to  analyze, 
Did  one  design  a  new  philosophy, 
And  sought  in  strange  anomalies  to  embrace 
The  opposite  things  in  nature.     Fancy  a  creature, 
Having  the  external  attributes  of  man, — 
The  capacious  brow — the  clear,  transparent  eye — 
The  form  erect — the  voice  most  musical — 
Quick  talent,  ready  art,  and  specious  language, 
And  something  winning  in  his  natural  manner, 
Beguiling  still  the  unwary  to  belief — 
Yet,  as  if  made  in  mock  of  heaven's  own  purpose, 
Having,  in  place  of  heart,  a  nest  of  vipers  ; 
Whose  secret  venom,  mastering  all  his  powers, 
Taints  ever  his  performance — makes  his  doings, 
When  most  they  favor  virtue,  tend  to  vice — 
Corrupts  the  word  he  utters,  makes  him  false, 
When  most  the  truth  should  be  his  policy, — 
And  keeps  him  ever  lothely  in  pursuit 
Of  purposes  most  loathsome.     Know  you,  sir, 

One  Robert  Warren  ?     [Laying  his  hand  on  Warren's  shoulder,  and 
eyeing  him  closely. 

WARREN,  [shrinking  and  stammering]    Me,  sir — Warren  ?   No ! 

MAURICE,  [flinging  him  away  and  rising]     Liar  and  reptile,  as 

thou  still  hast  been, 

'Twere  thousand  times  more  hopeful  to  endow 
The  serpent  with  the  nature  of  the  dove, 


56  NORMAN    MAURICE. 

To  graft  the  fruit  of  Eden  on  the  tree, 
That,  with  its  bitter,  blights  the  Dead  Sea  shore — - 
Appease  the  tiger's  thirst — the  leopard's  spots 
Pluck  from  his  side,  and  bind  him  with  a  straw — 
Than  change  the  designing  devil  at  thy  heart  1 

WARREN.     What  mean  you,  sir  ? 

CLARICE,  [seizing  his  arml\     Oh  I  Norman,  wherefore  this  ? 

MAURICE.     What  1     See  you  not  I     Hath  sense  of  happiness 
So  totally  obscured  the  sense  of  wrong, 
That  memory  lacks  each  faculty,  and  nature, 
Losing  the  subtle  instinct  which  still  counsels- 
The  innocent  of  his  peril,  stoops  to  wanton 
With  the  fang'd  viper  in  his  villainous  coil. 
The  dream  !  the  dream  !  my  Clarice.     Get  thee  hence  I 
Leave  me  to  deal  with  him.     Away  ! 

CLARICE,     What's  he  ? 

MAURICE.     What  t  do  his  looks  not  answer  as  the  reptile's, 
That  speak  his  subtle  snare  and  silent  venom  I 
Doth  not  his  coward  crouching  show  his  nature, 
As  now  I  stretch  the  arm  of  vengeance  o'er  him  * 
Must  I  confer  a  name  upon  the  victim, 
Even  in  the  moment  when  I  strike  the  blow, 
Lest,  in  their  ignorant  blindness,  men  should  fancy 
This  were  a  kinsman  whom  in  wrath  I  slew  I 

WARREN.     Beware  1 — this  violence  t     [Snatches  a  fai-ifefrom 
table. 

MAURICE.     Is  justice  only — 

CLARICE,  \interposing I\     Norman  !     Husband  I 

MAURICE.     What !     See'st  not  still ! 

CLARICE.     I  see  !    I  know  I — and  yet — 

MAURICE.     And  yet,  and  yet,  and  yet  I  is  the  child's  wisdom  ! 
Shall  we  not  be  secure — never  find  refuge  ! 
Shall  hate  pursue,  and  vengeance  turn  not  on  him  I 
Must  we  be  driven  from  each  world  of  peace, 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  57 

To  burrow  with  the  hill  fox  and  the  wolf, 
When  but  a  stroke  is  needful — 

CLARICE.  Oh  I  thou  must  not  : 

He  shares  our  hospitality — our  shelter  ! 

MAURICE,  [hurling  the  table  over.]    He  hath  not  touch'd  the  bread 

and  sacred  salt, 

He  shall  not  claim  the  Arab's  privilege, — 
He  dies  !— 

CLARICE.     For  my  sake,  Norman,  spare  him  ! 
Let  him  go  hence  ;  the  past  is  over  now. 

WARREN.     She  counsels  wisely,  Norman.     Lift  no  hand 
Against  me,  for  I  come  to  you  in  peace. 

MAURICE.     In  peace  !     In  peace  !     And  wherefore  this  disguise  ? 
Thy  fraudulent  tale  of  travel — this  false  semblance, 
False  hair,  false  speech — unless  with  heart  and  purpose 
False  as  of  old  !     Didst  think,  that  I,  who  knew  thee, 
By  such  damn'd  treachery  as  thou  still  hast  shown  me, 
Could  be  deceived  by  wretched  arts  like  these  ? — 
My  blindness  and  my  confidence  so  perfect, 
That  I  should  sleep  and  dream,  while  at  my  pillow 
Thou  crep'st  at  midnight,  from  the  hearth  that  warm'd  thee, 
To  fasten  on  my  heart !     Thou  com'st,  an  outlaw  ! — 
What  hinders  that  I  slay  thee  ? — that  I  take  thee, 
Thus,  by  the  throat,  and,  stifling  fear  and  feeling, 
Slaughter  thee,  as  a  bullock  at  the  altar, 
Thy  blood  would  still  profane  ! 

CLARICE,  [interposing.]  Norman  !     Norman  ! 

Oh !  must  thy  Clarice  plead  to  thee  in  vain  ? 
Spare  him,  if  but  in  gratitude  to  heaven, 
For  that  we  prosper  in  his  hate's  despite. 

MAURICE.     'Tis  for  that  very  reason  I  should  slay  him  ! 
He  comes  to  blight  our  brief  prosperity, 
To  compass  all  our  sunshine  with  his  cloud, 
And  taint  our  flowers  with  poison. 

3* 


58  NOR  MAN    MAURICE. 

WARREN.  Yet,  beware ! 

She  counsels  thee  with  wisdom,  Norman  Maurice ; 
I  am  not  friendless  here.     Did  aught  befall  me, 
Here,  in  thy  dwelling,  to  my  mortal  hurt, 
'Tis  known  that  I  came  hither — 'tis  known  farther, 
That  I  have  that  to  speak  against  thy  fame, 
Shall  blacken  it  forever. 

MAURICE.  Ha,  say'st  thou  that ! 

Well  thou  wouldst  something  more  ! 

WARREN.  Only  a  word — 

And  lest  thy  prudence  should  not  check  thy  passion, 
My  providence — [showing  pistol.'] 

MAURICE.     What !  thou  hast  weapons  then ! 
Now,  by  my  hopes — if  it  were  possible, 
To  find  thee  but  one  moment  flush  with  manhood  ! — 
Look  on  me,  villain,  as  I  now  confront  thee, 
But,  lift  thine  eye  to  mine,  and  let  thy  aim 
Be  deadly  as  thy  malice  !     Wretched  coward — 
Thus  do  I  mock  thy  impotence.     [Hushes  upon  him  and  wrests  the 
weapon  from  his  hand. 

WARREN.     Spare  me,  Norman  ! 

CLARICE.     Husband,  let  him  live  ! 

MAURICE.     Outlaw  !  that  masks  him  with  deliberate  purpose — 

[Takes  Warren  by  the  throat. 

WARREN.     Mercy,  Norman ! 

MAURICE.     That  seeks  by  night  my  dwelling  with  a  lie  ! — 

CLARICE.     Husband — dear  husband  ! 

MAURICE.     That  lifts  his  deadly  weapon  'gainst  my  bosom —  . 

WARREN.     Thou  stranglest  me  ! 

CLARICE.     Have  pity,  Norman ! 

MAURICE.     For  thy  sake,  I  spare  him  ! — 

WARREN.     Thanks — oh,  thanks  ! 

MAURICE.     Yet  feel  how  better  'twere  to  crush  him  now, 
Than  suffer  him — 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  59 

WARREN.     I  swear ! 

MAURICE.  Oh ! — if  thou  durst 

Take  name  of  God  in  vain  to  do  hell  service, — 
I'll  slay  thee  with  a  certainty  of  vengeance 
That  leaves  no  limb  unhurt.     For  well  I  know 
Thy  heart  is  never  then  less  free  from  malice, 
Than  when  thy  lips  declare  thy  innocence. 
Hence,  ere  I  change  my  purpose.     I  will  spare  thee, 
And  fling  thee  from  my  threshold,  but  to  show  thee 
How  much  I  still  forbear.     [Hurls  him  out  headlong. 

CLARICE.     Oh,  how  I  thank  thee  ! 

MAURICE.     If  evil  follows  on  this  mercy,  Clarice, 
Thine  is  the  fault. 

CLARICE.     Oh,  Norman,  this  man's  hate — 

MAURICE.    'While  we  can  tear  the  falsehood  from  his  brow 
Is  nothing,  but — 

CLARICE.     Why  should  he  follow  us ! 

MAURICE.     Oh  !  for  some  hellish  purpose.     But  go  in  ; 
Leave  me  awhile. 

CLARICE.     Wilt  thou  not  close  the  door  ? 

MAURICE.     Let  it  stay  wide  all  night. 

CLARICE.     You  go  not  forth  ? 

MAURICE,     One  sleeps  not  when  the  wolf  is  in  his  close, 
Lest  that  his  howl  should  scare  his  infant's  sleep — 
And  when  I  doubt  if  ill  is  at  my  threshold, 
'Twere  base  to  sleep  upon  the  pillow  of  doubt. 
But,  go  you  in,  dear  wife  ! — you  must  not  hear 
The  voice  in  anger  you  have  heard  in  love. 
Leave  me  awhile.     This  thing  still  troubles  me, 
But  should  not  trouble  you.     Go  to  your  prayers, 
And  leave  the  watches  of  the  night  to  me. 
God  still  presides  o'er  all.     I  see  not  yet, 
The  evil  that  this  evil  spirit  brings, 
But  trust  that  we  shall  lack  no  help  of  angel, 


60  NORMAL    MAURICE. 

Whene'er  the  struggle  corner 

CLARICE.     Norman. 

MAURICE.    Dear  wife ! 

CLARICE.     Forget  not  that  my  life  is-  in  thy  hands-, 
Oh,  do  not  rashly  purpose. 

MAURICE,     Never  fear !     [Embrace.     Ex.  Clarice  within. 

MAURICE.     What  can  he  mean  !     That  paper  i&  destroy'd  ; — 
Why  should  I  fear  his  malice  I    Yet,  so  truly, 
I  know  his  equal  baseness  and  design, 
I  feel  that  he  hath  purposes  of  mischief 
Which,  if  he  lack'd  the  agencies  of  evil, 
He  ne'er  had  underta'en.     No  sleep  for  me, 
When  that  the  dark  suspicions  in  my  soul, 
Engender  still  the  foe.     I  must  go  forth  ! —  [Looks  out, 

Oh  !  God,  how  beautiful  the  calm  o'er  earth, — 
How  soft  the  night,  that,  with  a  veil  of  brightness- 
Wraf»s  all  the  subject  creatures — peace  and  sleep, 
Sharing  the  dreamy  blessing,  as  if  evil, 
Sped  not  malignant  spirits  through  the  air, 
And  never  flower  of  earth  had  covered  reptile  I  [Goes  forth. 


END    OF    ACT    SECOND. 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  61 


ACT    III.  — SCENE    I. 

A.  chamber  in  the  dwelling  of  Harry  Matthews,  in    St.  Lo 
Robert  Warren  and  Richard  Osborne  discovered. 

OSBORNE.     I  warn'd  you  of  the  peril. 

WARREN.  Yet  your  wisdom 

Had  scarcely  fancied  that  his  glance  could  fathom 
Disguise  so  good  as  mine  ! 

OSBORNE.  I  said  his  eye 

Was  like  an  eagle's.     It  were  hard  to  say, 
What,  with  his  mind  once  roused  into  suspicion, 
It  could  not  penetrate. 

WARREN.  'Twould  better  please  me, 

If  one,  who  should  be  in  my  service  only, 
Could  find  my  foe  less  perfect. 

OSBORNE.  And,  to  do  so, 

Should  prove  himself  less  true. 

WARREN.  Oh  !  your  truth, 

Were  better  shown  in  service  than  opinion  ! 
My  habit  was  good ;  and  I  had  been  secure, 
But  that,  to  sound  him,  I  unseal'd  myself ; 
And,  like  a  witling,  answered  all  his  questions, 
Of  persons  whom  we  once  had  known  together. 

OSBORNE.     Be  sure,  he  first  suspected  ere  he  question'd. 

WARREN.     'Tis  like  enough  !     At  all  events  he  floor'd  D 
Disgraced  me  as  he  still  hath  done  before 
In  frequent  strife.     The  mask  is  thrown  aside  ; 
He  knows  me,  here,  his  enemy  ;  and  now — 
The  open  conflict ! 

OSBORNE.     What  is  now  the  game  ? 


62  NOEMAN    MAURICE. 

The  open  conflict  lie  would  never  shrink  from  ! 
Why,  when  his  hand  was  fix'd  upon  your  throat, 
Did  you  forbear  the  weapon  ? 

WARREN.  Ask  me  rather, 

Why  one  is  still  superior  to  his  fellow ; 
Why  one  is  brave,  another  impotent ; 
Why  I  am  feeble  just  where  he  is  strong  ; — 
And  why,  with  will  to  compass  his  destruction, 
My  heart  still  fails  me  in  the  final  effort ! 
Such  still  hath  been  the  sequel  of  our  issues  ! 
He  still  hath  master'd  me  with  such  a  will, 
My  spirit  droops  before  him,  and  I  shudder, 
To  feel,  that,  with  a  hate  so  fix'd  and  fearful, 
I  lack  the  heart  to  drive  the  weapon  home ! — 
But  I  shall  do  it  yet ! 

OSBORNE.  And  why  the  conflict, 

Thus  ever  urged  with  fate  so  full  of  peril  ? 
Now,  while  you  may  forbear,  and  pause  in  safety, 
Forego  the  struggle,  which  hath  still  been  hopeless ; 
Give  him  repose,  and  leave  yourself  at  peace. 

WARREN.     Peace  !  with  these  passions  ! 

OSBORNE.  They  will  wreck  your  own  ! 

A  something  tells  me  such  must  be  the  issue, 
In  any  strife  with  Maurice. 

WARREN.  Vain  the  counsel — 

I  cannot  leave  the  conflict ! 

OSBORNE.     Why  ? 

WARREN.  Will  not  do  so  ! 

While  still  my  hate  must  go  unsatisfied — 
My  pride, — to  say  no  more  of  other  passions. 

OSBORNE.     This  woman — 

WARREN.     Not  a  word  of  her  ! 

OSBORNE.  Smiles  she, 

That  still  you  prosecute  this  doubtful  struggle  ? 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  63 

WARREN.     She  may,  perchance,  when  she  is  duly  tutor'd, 
That,  on  my  whisper,  hangs  her  husband's  honor. 

OSBORNE.     This  is  your  purpose,  then  ? 

WARREN.     You  do  not  like  it  ? 

OSBORNE.     I  am  your  slave, — the  creature  of  your  mood, 
More  at  your  mercy  far  than  Norman  Maurice, 
Since  he  is  innocent  and  I  am  guilty ; — 
What  matter  what  I  like  ? 

WARREN.  Why,  that's  well  said  ! — 

Enough  for  you  I  must  pursue  my  victims, 
While  hate  conceives  a  hell  for  him,  or  passion 
Dreams  still  of  heaven  from  her  !     This  day,  when  Maurice 
Leaves  for  the  city,  I  shall  seek  his  dwelling. 

OSBORNE.     Again  !  untaught  by  late  experience  ! 
You  seek  his  wife  then  ? 

WARREN.  Why,  not  exactly.— 

Perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  Mrs.  Jervas 
Arrived  last  night  at  midnight. 

OSBORNE.  How  can  she 

Assist  you  in  this  mad  pursuit  ?     You  tell  me 
That  Maurice  still  suspects  her. 

WARREN.  Never  matter — 

She  is  my  ally ; — but,  here's  Harry  Matthews  : 
He  comes  to  take  me  to  the  secret  council, 
Where  other  plans  mature  against  our  foeman. 

OSBORNE.     You  will  not  breathe  this  secret  to  these  people  ? 

WARREN.     I  will  but  breathe  it. 

OSBORNE.     And  withhold  the  proof  ? 

WARREN.     As  suits  my  purpose.     It  is  very  likely, 
I  shall  not  call  on  you  till  the  last  hour, 
When  all  is  ready  for  his  overthrow  ! 
Of  this  be  sure,  Dick  Osborne  :  I  will  pamper 
My  several  passions  as  I  can,  and  stint  them, 
In  nothing,  that  may  gratify  their  rage. 


64  NOR  MAN    MAURICE. 


Enter  Harry  Matthews. 

MATTHEWS.     Art  ready,  Warren  ? 

WARREN.     Will  be  in  a  moment ! 

MATTHEWS,  [to  Osborne.]     You'll  go  with  us  ? 

OSBORNE.     Excuse  me. 

WARREN,  [aside  to  Osborne.]     Why  not  go  ? 

OSBORNE,  [aside  to  W.~]     Sufficient,  as  they  tell  us,  for  the  day 
Its  evil ;  when  I  can  no  longer  'scape  it, 
I'll  mix  in  this  conspiracy ; — till  then, 
Let  me  go  idle. 

WARREN,  [aside  to  Osborne.~\     Hark  you,  Richard  Osborne, 
No  faltering  when  the  moment  comes  to  speak  ; 
The  rod  that  does  not  yield  to  me,  I  break  ! 

[Ex.  Matthews  and  Warren. 

OSBORNE.     And  no  escape  !     I  dare  not  run  on  ruin, 
And  face  the  shame  with  which  he  threatens  me  ; 
Yet,  with  a  tyranny  so  terrible, 
That  plies  me  with  its  torture  night  and  day, 
'Twere  better  throw  increase  of  weight  on  conscience, 
And,  by  embrace  with  deeds  of  deadlier  aspect, 
At  least  secure  escape  from  sway  like  this  ! 
Had  I  the  heart  for  it !     Could  I  find  the  courage  ! 
'Twere  but  a  blow  ! — a  blow !     I'll  ponder  it.  [Ex.  Osborne. 


SCENE    II. 

An  apartment  in  the  house  of  Col.  Ferguson.     Ferguson,  Blasing- 
hame,  Matthews,  Warren,  and  other  persons  discovered. 

BLASINGHAME.    The  matter  then  resolves  itself  to  this — 
We  know  for  certain,  now,  that  this  man,  Maurice, 


NOBMAN     MAURICE.  65 

Will  be  the  opposition  candidate  : — 
Ben  Ferguson  is  ours. 

FERGUSON.     And  why  not  you  ? 

BLASINGHAME.     For  the  best  reasons.     No  !  my  private  business 
Needs  careful  nursing  now.     This  woman,  Pressley, 
Is  like  to  give  me  trouble. 

MATTHEWS.  Her  new  lawyer 

Is  stubborn,  then  ? 

BLASINGHAME.     He  seems  to  be  a  man  ; 
And  we  shall  suffer  him  to  prove  his  manhood  ! 
I  wrote  him  of  the  merits  of  my  case, 
Concluding,  with  a  civil  exhortation, 
As  he  was  young,  and  but  a  stranger  here, 
That  he  should  spare  his  teeth,  nor  peril  them, 
On  nuts  too  hard  to  crack. 

MATTHEWS.     What  said  he  then  ? 

BLASINGHAME.     Oh  !  with  an  answer  bold  enough,  I  warrant. 

MATTHEWS.     He  did  not  know  his  customer,  I  fancy. 

BLASINGHAME.     I  think  not ;  and  to  lesson  him  a  little, 
One  of  my  lambs  was  sent  to  him  this  morning — 
Joe  Savage !    • 

FERGUSON.     Joe's  a  rough  teacher,  colonel. 

BLASINGHAME.     As  God  has  made  him,  Joe.     He'll  do  our  busi- 
ness 
As  tenderly  as  if  it  were  his  own. 

FERGUSON.     But  was  there  not  some  whisper  of  a  secret 
Touching  this  Norman  Maurice,  which,  if  true, 
Would  render  any  messages  of  honor, 
Impossible,  to  him ! 

BLASINGHAME.  I  did  not  hear  ; — 

Unfold  your  budget. 

FERGUSON.  Harry  Matthews,  there, 

Speaks  of  a  secret  in  his  friend's  possession, 
That's  fatal  to  this  man ! 


06  NORMAN    MAURICE. 

BLASINGHAME.  Ha  !  out  with  it ! 

'Twill  save  a  monstrous  trouble  in  our  wigwam  ; 
For,  to  say  truth,  this  man  is  popular, 
Grows  every  day  in  strength  in  the  assembly, 
And,  I  confess  to  you,  I  have  my  fears, 
Touching  the  game  before  us.     Our  new  members 
Are  not  what  I  would  have  them  ;  and  old  Mercer, 
Catesby  and  Brooks,  gain  daily  influence, 
Under  the  cunning  counsel  of  this  Maurice. 
If  we  can  crush  this  fellow,  who  has  talent, 
And  shows  more  stubbornness  than  I  can  relish, 
'Twere  better  done  before  we  lose  our  headway. 
This  man  disposed  of,  they  can  find  no  other 
To  take  the  field  with  Ferguson. 

MATTHEWS.     Speak,  Warren ! 

WARREN.     There  is  a  secret,  gentlemen  ;  a  dark  one 
Which,  told,  were  fatal  to  this  Norman  Maurice  ! 
I  will  not  tell  it  now  ;  but  wait  the  moment, 
When,  over  all,  conspicuous  most,  he  stands, 
With  triumph  in  his  prospect,  and  his  spirit, 
Exulting  in  the  state  he  deems  secure  ! 
Then  will  I  come  between  his  hope  and  triumph  ; 
Then  show  the  guilty  secret  that  degrades  him, 
Confound  him  with  the  proofs  which  now  are  ready, 
And  hurl  him  down  to  ruin,  the  more  fatal, 
For  that  I  suffer'd  him  to  rise  so  high. 

BLASINGIIAME.     But  why  not  now  ?     The  man  is  high  enough  ! 

WARREN.     The  secret's  mine,  sir.     When  I'm  done  with  it, 
I'll  buiy  it  as  did  the  Phrygian  barber, 
Where  every  reed  that  whistles  in  the  wind 
Shall  make  it  into  music  for  his  ear. 
Be  sure  of  this,  I'll  yield  it  you  in  season, 
Ere  Maurice  sits  a  Senator  in  Congress  ! 

MATTHEWS.     Well — that's  sufficient ! 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  67 

BLASINGHAME.  Yes  !     Let  him  do  that ! 

Meanwhile,  there  is  a  way  to  save  himself. 
This  Maurice  has  my  message — 

MATTHEWS.     He'll  not  fight ! 

BLASINGHAME.  If  he  would — 

MATTHEWS.     His  honor  would  be  rescued  by  his  death  ? 

WARREN.     Scarcely  ;  since  'tis  for  me  to  keep  the  secret, 
Or  free  it,  if  I  please  !     But,  let  me  tell  you, 
That  Maurice  will  not  shrink  from  any  combat ! 
I  know  him  well.     He  is  mine  enemy, 
But  let  me  do  him  justice.     He  will  fight, 
Though  all  the  devils  of  hell  stood  up  against  him. 
Look  to  it,  sir ;  [to  Biasing.^  your  reputation's  great, 
But  Maurice  is  no  common  opponent ; 
And  you  will  need  your  utmost  excellence, 
To  conquer  him  when  once  he  takes  the  field  ! 

BLASINGHAME.     Well !  that's  good  news  !    My  lamb  is  with  him 

now ; 
We'll  hear  from  him  by  noon. 

FERGUSON.  Before  we  part, 

'Tis  understood  we  put  our  troops  in  motion  ; 
The  strife  will  be  a  close  one  !     Blasinghame 
Hath  truly  spoken  of  this  new  assembly ; 
It  puzzles  me  to  fathom  it.     This  Maurice, 
Is,  questionless,  a  man  of  wondrous  power ; 
And,  though  I  much  prefer  that  we  should  beat  him, 
In  a  fair  wrestle,  with  the  usual  agents, 
Yet  this  is  not  so  certainly  our  prospect, 
As  that  we  should  forego  this  fatal  secret, 
That  makes  our  game  secure. 

WARREN.     You  shall  have  it. 

BLASINGHAME.     We  meet  to-night  at  Baylor's. 

MATTHEWS,  [to  Warren^\     You'll  be  with  us  ? 
It  may  be  that  your  fruit  will  then  be  ripe. 


68  NORMAN    MAUKICE. 

BLASINGHAME.     Ay,  come,  sir,  with  your  friend. 
WARREN,  [to  Matthews^  Perhaps  !     We'll  see ; — 

There  may  be  other  fruits  upon  that  tree. 

[Exeunt  several  ways. 


SCENE    III. 

An  apartment  in  the  house  of  Norman  Maurice.  He  appears  scatec 
at  a  table  with  books  and  papers  before  him.  After  a  pause,  h 
closes  his  books,  folds  and  ties  the  papers  in  a  bundle,  pushes  tfien 
from  before  him  and  rises. 

MAURICE,  [so/fws.]     It  is  the  curse  of  insecurity, 
That  cruel  doubt  that  hangs  upon  possession 
Glides  with  the  midnight  to  the  sleepless  pillow, 
And,  with  the  laurel  wreath  that  crowns  the  triumph, 
Sows  thick  the  thorns  that  make  the  brow  to  ache  ! 
Did  the  endowment  not  imply  the  service, 
Were  we  not  each  enjoin'd  with  a  commission, 
The  task  decreed,  the  struggle  thrust  upon  us, 
Making  it  manhood  to  comply  with  duty ; 
How  better  far — the  treasure  in  our  keeping, 
Love  at  our  bosom,  peace  upon  our  threshold, 
When  bliss  can  never  hope  increase  of  rapture, 
And  fear  begins  to  dream  of  unknown  danger, — 
To  fly  the  world — the  conflict, — nay,  the  triumph, 
And,  bearing  off  the  trophy  we  have  won, 
Hush  the  ambitious  spirit  in  our  hearts 
That  whispers,  "  Life  hath  more !"     Have  I  won  nothing, 
That  I  should  toil,  as  unrequited  Labor 
Still  hoping  yet  to  win  ?     Am  I  a  beggar, 
Who,  perilling  nothing  in  each  fearful  venture, 
Stakes  all  his  hopes  on  change  ?     With  goods  so  precious, 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  G9 

Should  I  still  venture  in  the  common  market, 
Where_Malifie-«tan3s7with  gibe  of  cruel  slander, 
And^njgzJUH-ks-in  readiness  to  steal  ? — 
When  the  still  shelter  of  the  wilderness, 
The  depth  of  shadow,  the  great  solitudes, 
Beckon  the  heart  with  promise  of  their  own, 
Still  singing,  "  Here  is  refuge !" 

Wretched  folly  !— 

As  if  the  serpent  could  not  find  the  garden ; 
As  if  the  malicious  Hate,  by  hell  engendered, 
Had  not  an  equal  instinct,  how  to  fathom 
The  secret  haunt  where  rapture  hopes  to  hide ! 
Hate  bears  a  will  as  resolute  as  love, 
A  wing  as  swift,  an  eye  as  vigilant, 
And  instincts,  that,  as  still  they  keep  it  sleepless, 
Prompt  the  keen  search  when  Rapture  stops  for  rest ! 
A  sad  presentiment  of  coming  evil 
Stifles  each  generous  impulse  at  my  heart, 
That  ever  spoke  in  confidence.     This  Warren 
Is  here  for  mischief;  with  what  hope  to  prosper — 
That  single  proof  destroy'd — I  now  divine  not. 
This  woman,  coming  close  upon  his  footsteps, 
Confirms  my  apprehensions.     They  are  allies — 
She  false  as  he,  but  feeble — his  mere  creature, 
To  beat  the  bush,  while  he  secures  the  game  ! 
Well !  I  must  watch  them  with  a  vigilance 
Due  to  the  precious  treasure  in  my  trust ; 
And,  swift  as  justice  in  avenging  mission, 
With  the  first  show  of  evil  in  their  purpose, 
Crush  them  to  earth,  and Well  ?  [Enter  servant. 

SERVANT.     Major  Savage,  sir. 

MAURICE.     Show  him  in.  [Enter  Saw 

SAVAGE.     Your  name  is  Maurice  ? 

MAURICE.     'Tis  sir.    Yours  ? 


70  NOKMAN    MAUEICE. 

SAVAGE.     Mine  is  Joe  Savage, — Major  of  militia. 
You  got  a  letter,  sir,  a  week  ago, 
From  Colonel  Blasinghame. 

MAURICE.     And  answer'd  it ! 

SAVAGE.     That  answer  did  not  please  him,  Blasinghame. 

MAURICE.     I'm  sorry  for  it,  sir  ;  but  you'll  believe  me, 
When  I  assure  you,  that,  in  penning  it, 
I  never  once  conceived  it  necessary 
To  ask  what  were  his  tastes. 

SAVAGE.  Eh,  sir  :  you  did  not ! 

Well,  let  me  tell  you,  those  who  know  him  better, 
Are  something  curious  never  to  offend  him. 
But  you,  sir,  are  a  stranger — do  not  know  him 
So  well  as  others,  born  here  in  Missouri — 
And  so,  he  sends  me  to  enlighten  you. 

MAURICE.     I  thank  him,  sir. 

SAVAGE.  Well,  you  have  need  to  do  so  ; 

He  does  not  use  such  courtesy  in  common, 
But  usually  the  blow  before  the  word  ! 

MAURICE.     I'm  lucky  in  his  new-born  courtesy. 

SAVAGE.     You  are,  sir  !     He's  a  rough  colt,  Blasinghame. 

MAURICE.     Kicks,  does  he  ? 

SAVAGE.     Kicks,  sir  !     Why  do  you  say  kicks  ? 

MAURICE.     Surely,  no  act  more  proper  to  a  colt. 

SAVAGE.     You  are  something  literal,  sir.    I'm  glad  of  it, 
Since  'twill  be  easier  to  be  understood  ! 
Well,  sir,  I  come  to  you  from  Blasinghame. 
You  know  not,  sir,  in  taking  up  this  case 
Of  mother  Pressley's,  sir,  that  you  are  doing 
That  which,  until  your  coming,  not  a  lawyer 
Had  done  here  in  Missouri. 

MAURICE.     Shame  upon  them  ! 

SAVAGE.     Shame,  say  you  ?     Wherefore,  when  the  right  of  it 
Is  all  with  Blasinghame  ! 


NOKMAN    MAUKICE.  71 

MAURICE.     Or  with  his  cudgel ! 

SAVAGE,  \laughs.~]    Something  in  that,  too.    Well,  sir, — I  say ! — 

MAURICE.     Well,  sir ! 

SAVAGE.     Now,  as  you  something  seem  to  know  already 
Of  my  friend's  mode  of  managing  his  case, 
I  need  not  dwell  upon  the  policy 
Of  stopping  all  proceedings  ere  the  trial ; — 
In  which  event  I'm  authorized  to  tell  you 
That  Blasinghame  forgives  your  insolent  letter, 
And  spares  you  as  a  stranger. 

MAURICE.  Merciful, 

As  he  is  powerful !     But  what  if — having 
No  such  afflicting  terror  of  this  person, 
So  terrible  to  his  neighbors,  in  mine  eyes — 
I  do  reject  this  liberal  grant  of  mercy. 

SAVAGE.     Then,  sir,  I  bear  his  peremptory  challenge, 
Which  leaves  you,  sir,  without  alternative, 
Takes  no  apology,  no  explanation, 
And  only  seeks  atonement  in  your  blood.  [Gives  challenge. 

MAURICE.     Or  his ! 

SAVAGE.     Or  his  !     But  that's  no  easy  matter,  sir ; 
He's  fought  some  thirty  duels  in  his  time, 
Wing'd  nineteen  combatants,  and  slew  the  rest, 
Nor  had  a  scratch  himself. 

MAURICE.  Why,  we  may  say, 

As  Thumb,  in  the  great  tragedy — "  Enter  Thumb, 
And  slays  them  all !" 

SAVAGE.     You  mock,  sir ! — 

MAURICE.     Not  a  bit,  sir  ! 
I  marvel  only,  after  hearing  you, 
That  still  I  have  the  courage  to  resist. 

SAVAGE.     You  will  not,  sir  ? 

MAURICE.     I  fear  me  that  I  shall ! 

SAVAGE.    What !  you  accept  the  challenge,  then  ? 


72  NO KM AN    MAURICE. 

MAURICE.     I'll  keep  it,  sir,  until  this  trial's  over. 

SAVAGE.     Beware,  sir,  of  evasion. 

MAURICE.  You,  in  turn,  sir, 

Beware  of  insolence.     You  have  my  answer ; 
When  I  have  gain'd  this  suit  of  Widow  Pressley, 
I'll  see  to  that  of  Colonel  Blasinghame. 

SAVAGE.     I  must  have  your  answer  now,  or — 

MAURICE.  The  door,  sir, — 

Unless,  indeed,  you  should  prefer  the  window. 

SAVAGE.     Well !     You're  a  man,  that's  certain  !     Give  us 

hand. 

I'm  a  rough  beast,  and  like  you  not  the  less, 
Because  you  keep  a  muzzle  for  the  bear ; 
I  feel  that  you  will  meet  with  Blasinghame, 
And  I  shall  see  it.     [Shakes  hands. 

MAURICE.     Very  like  you  will !     [Exit  Savage. 
The  game  becomes  of  interest !     [tap  within. 
Clarice  !     [Opens  to  her,  she  enters. 

CLARICE.     Art  busy,  Norman  ? 

MAURICE.     Have  been.     But, — this  lady  ? — 

CLARICE.     Will  you  not  see  her  ? 

MAURICE.     Not  if  I  can  help  it. 

CLARICE.     She  is  my  only  kinswoman,  my  husband — 
You  will  not  drive  her  from  me  ? 

MAURICE.  Your  only ! — 

You  were  my  only,  Clarice — I  your  only, 
Until  her  coming !     Only  to  each  other, 
Was  the  o'erprecious  bond  that  most  endear'd  you 
To  my  affections,  wife.     I  cannot  suffer 
That  she  should  pass  between  your  heart  and  mine — 
She  who  loves  neither. 

CLARICE.     Nay,  Norman ! 

MAURICE.  Nay,  Clarice ! 

This  cold,  coarse,  selfish,  this  dishonest  woman, 


N  0  R  M  A  N     M  A  U  K  I  C  E ,  73 

Who  strove  to  keep  us  separate — 

CLARICE.  Her  error, 

She  pleads,  was  but,  in  a  mistaken  fondness, 
To  find  a  suitor,  for  her  favorite  niece, 
With  better  hope  of  fortune  than  yourself. 

MAURICE.     Who  broke  the  sacred  seal  upon  our  letters, 
Mine  read, — yours  hurried  to  the  flames,  unsent — 
And  would  have  sold  you  to  this  Robert  Warren, 
My  enemy — 

CLARICE.     She  confesses  all,  and  weeps  ! 

MAURICE.     Tears  of  the  crocodile !     Believe  them  not. 
Plead  for  her  nothing  more !     I  tell  you,  Clarice, 
I  cannot  hold  my  table  sure  and  sacred, 
With  one  so  false  beside  me  at  the  board ! — 
I  cannot  yield  my  home,  now  pure  and  peaceful, 
To  such  a  treacherous  heart  as  that  she  carries. 
My  home  is  not  my  home,  when  doubts  of  safety 
Haunt  still  my  thoughts  by  day,  my  dreams  by  night. 
She  must  go  hence  ! 

CLARICE.  Oh  !  husband,  pardon  her ! 

She  urges  abject  poverty  ! 

MAURICE.  More  falsehood  still ! 

But  we'll  provide  her ; — she  shall  never  suffer, 
From  cold,  or  thirst,  or  hunger,  my  Clarice. 
I  will  to-day  seek  lodgings  in  St.  Louis ; 
To-morrow — 

CLARICE,     But,  should  her  pride  ? — 

MAURICE.  She  has  no  right 

To  nurse  her  pride  at  peril  of  our  peace  ! 
No  more !     I  will  not  mock  her  poverty, 
Offend  her  pride,  reproach  her  evil  doing — 
Will  speak  her  kindly,  and  will  care  for  her, 
So  long  as  I  have  strength  for  any  care  ; — 
But  will  not  suffer,  for  a  single  moment, 
VOL,  i.  4 


74:  N  O  K  M  A  N     M  A  U  R  I  C  E . 

Her  shadow  on  the  sunshine  of  my  house.  \Knock  ivii'iout. 

Come  in ! 

Enter  Cols.  Mercer  and  Brooks. 

Friends,  welcome ! 

[Clarice  curtsies  as  they  bow,  and  is  about  to  retire. 

MERCER.  If  we  be  welcome, 

Your  lady  need  not  leave  us. 

BROOKS.  That  which  brings  us, 

Is  business  of  your  own,  no  less  than  ours, — 
A  grateful  business  still,  we  trust,  to  you — 
Which,  doing  honor  to  your  worth  and  virtue, 
It  may  be  grateful  to  your  wife  to  hear. 

CLARICE.     If  such  its  burden,  I  were  glad  to  linger. 

MAURICE.     Do  so,  Clarice ! — we,  gentlemen,  are  one ! 
Marriage,  with  us,  fulfils  its  ample  mission, 
Making  a  mutual  need  for  both  our  hearts  ; 
Whose  sweet  dependence  knows  no  other  refuge, 
Than  that  which  each  bestows.     It  is  our  fortune, 
To  have  no  kindred  which  may  pass  between  us, 
To  take  from  either  heart  the  sweet  possession 
We  hold  in  one  another.     But,  be  seated. 

MERCER.     Court  now  in  session,  sir,  your  time  is  precious, 
And  this  great  case  of  yours,  'gainst  Blasinghame, 
Comes  on  to-day  ? 

MAURICE.     It  does. 

MERCER.  A  moment  then  ? 

Our  friends,  sir,  conscious  of  your  great  endowment, 
Assured  of  your  just  principles  and  conduct, 
Your  sense  of  public  trust  and  public  duty, 
Have,  with  unanimous  voice,  in  a  full  caucus, 
Deputed  us  to  bear  you  their  request, 
That  you  will  be  our  candidate  for  Senator, 
In  the  next  Congress. 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  75 

BROOKS.  And  we  now  entreat  you, 

Suffer  this  nomination. 

MAURICE.  Friends,  believe  me, 

I  feel  with  proper  sense,  this  compliment ; 
And,  if  my  own  desire,  my  young  ambition, 
Were  the  sole  arbiter  to  shape  my  conduct, 
Then  would  I  say  to  you,  with  hearty  frankness, 
My  wing  and  eye  are  set  upon  the  station, 
To  which  your  accents  now  implore  my  flight. 
But,  though  'twould  give  me  pride  to  serve  our  people, 
In  any  station  where  their  rights  are  vested, 
I  have  some  scruples — 

MERCER.     Pray  deliver  them. 

MAURICE.     To  be  a  candidate  in  common  usage, 
To  take  the  field  and  canvass  with  the  voter, 
To  use  or  sanction  fraud — to  buy  with  money, 
Or  other  bribe,  the  suffrage  of  the  people — 
Is  to  dishonor  them — degrade  myself ! 

BROOKS.     We  ask  not  this. 

MERCER.     It  needs  not. 

MAURICE.  Hear  me,  sirs. 

Our  liberties  are  in  the  popular  vote, 
Their  best  security,  the  popular  heart, 
Their  noblest  triumph  in  the  popular  will, — 
And  this  can  never  be  expressed  with  safety, 
Until  the  unbias'd  voice  of  public  judgment, 
Flinging  aside  each  intermediate  agent, 
Rises,  with  proper  knowledge  of  its  person, 
And  cries — "  Behold  our  man  !" 

MERCER.  You  are  our  man  ! 

Such  is  already  what  is  spoken  loudly 
By  thousands  in  Missouri. 

MAURICE.  I'll  not  deny  it — 

If  I  had  one  ambition  o'er  another, 


76  NOKMAN    MAURICE. 

One  passion,  prompting  still  a  search  for  power, 
'Twas  for  a  station  such  as  this  you  show  me, 
Where,  standing  on  the  platform  of  the  nation, 
I  might  stand  up  for  man  !     And  so,  my  studies, 
The  books  I  read,  the  maxims  I  examined, — 
The  laws  I  conn'd — the  models  set  before  me, — 
All  had  some  eminence  like  this  in  view, 
That,  with  my  training,  should  the  occasion  offer, 
I  might  be  ready  still !     But,  in  my  progress, — 
The  better  knowledge  I  have  learn'd  from  men — 
My  doubts  increase — my  scruples  grow — and  now, 
A  sense  of  duty  prompts  me  to  declare, 
Though  each  fond  idol  of  the  ambitious  nature, 
Be,  from  its  pedestal,  forever  thrown, 
I  will  not  seek  for  office  on  conditions 
Adverse  to  right  and  manhood.     I  will  never 
Become  the  creature  of  a  selfish  party — 
Never  use  wealth  or  fraud  to  rise  to  power, — 
Never  use  power  itself  to  keep  in  power, 
Nor  see  in  him  who  favor'd  my  ascent, 
A  virtue  not  his  own  !     Nor  can  I  offer 
One  tribute  to  the  vulgar  vanity  ! 
I  will  not  bow,  nor  smile,  nor  deference  yield, 
Where  justice  still  withholds  acknowledgment. 

MERCER.     We  feel  the  justice  of  your  sentiments. 

BROOKS.     They're  needful  to  us  now,  when  all's  corruption. 
Oh  !  could  we  but  inform  the  popular  mind. 

MAURICE.     This  can  be  done  where  virtue  is  the  teacher, 
No  students  learn  so  quickly  as  the  people. 
They  have  no  cliques  to  foster— no  professions, 
Whose  narrow  boundaries,  and  scholastic  rules, 
Frown  on  each  novel  truth  and  principle, 
And,  where  they  can,  still  hunt  them  down  to  ruin. 
They  take  a  truth  in  secret  to  their  hearts, 


NORMANMAUKICE.  T7 

And  nurse  it,  till  it  rises  to  a  law, 
Thenceforth  to  live  forever  ! 

BROOKS.  We  are  agreed — 

The  people  must  be  taught — what  should  we  teach  them  ? 

MAURICE.     In  politics,  to  know  the  proper  value 
Of  the  high  trusts,  the  sacred  privileges, 
They  do  confide  their  statesmen.     Show  to  them, 
On  these  depend  their  liberties  and  lives, 
The  safety  of  their  children,  and  the  future ! 
To  yield  such  trusts  to  smiling  sycophants, 
"Who  flatter  still  the  voter's  vanity, 
At  the  expense  of  his  most  precious  fortunes, 
Is  to  betray  the  land's  security ; 
To  sell  the  wealth  most  precious  in  our  keeping, 
And,  for  the  thing  most  worthless,  yield  to  fortune, 
What  fortune  cannot  purchase  !     We  must  teach, 
That  he  who  cringes  meanly  for  the  station, 
Will  meanly  hold  him  in  the  nation's  eye  ; 
That  he  who  buys  the  vote  will  sell  his  own  ; — 
That  he,  alone,  is  worthy  of  the  trust, 
Who,  with  the  faculty  to  use  it  nobly, 
Will  never  sacrifice  his  manhood  for  it. 
If,  with  these  principles  and  these  resolves, 
Thus  freely  shown  you,  and  invincible, 
Our  people,  through  their  representatives, 
Demand  my  poor  abilities, — 'twill  glad  me, 
To  yield  me  at  their  summons.  .  This  implies  not 
One  effort  of  my  own.     You,  sirs,  may  make  me 
A  Senator,  but  not  a  Candidate. 

MERCER.     This  suits  us  well. '  On  your  own  terms  we  take  you ; 
We  feel  with  you,  a  stern  necessity 
To  check  the  abuse  of  the  elective  franchise  ! 

BROOKS.     But  should  we  call  a  meeting  to  enlighten 
The  people,  in  respect  to  public 


78  NOB  MAN    MAURICE. 

You'll  not  refuse  to  meet  them  ? 

MAURICE.  No,  sir,  surely ! 

I  still  have  done  so,  upon  all  occasions, 
Whene'er  a  novel  principle  demanded 
Discussion. 

MERCER.     Thanks,  sir  !     There  will  be  to-morrow 
A  general  meeting  at  the  Capitol, 
Without  respect  to  party. 

MAURICE.     I  will  be  there  ! 

BROOKS.     Our  quest  is  satisfied  to  our  desire. 

MERCER.     We  will  no  longer  trespass.     Farewell,  madam, 
Farewell,  sir.     We  shall  meet  again  at  court. 

\Exeunt  Mercer  and  Brooks. 

CLARICE,  [embracing   him.]      Husband,   you  triumph !      There 

should  be  no  care 
Upon  your  forehead  now !     Last  night,  you.  slept  not. 

MAURICE.     And  now,  you  dream !    But  clouds  will  come,  Clarice, 
Still,  with  the  morrow !     Care  that  flies  the  forehead, 
Still  finds  a  secret  shelter  in  the  heart ! — 
That  timid  knock  !  \Knock  without. 

CLARICE.     It  is  the  widow  Pressley. 

MAURICE,  [opening.]     Come  in,  madam  ! 

JZnter  Widow  Pressley  and  Kate. 

WIDOW.     Oh  !  sir,  the  day  has  come  ! 

MAURICE.     That  brings  you  back  your  property,  I  trust. 

WIDOW.     Alas !  sir !     You  encourage  me  to  hope, — 
And  yet  I  fear  ! 

MAURICE.     It  is  that  we  are  liable  to  fear, 
That  we  must  hope.     If  judgment  be  not  erring 
ISTo  less  than  justice,  madam,  mine's  a  hope 
That  grows  the  bolder  with  each  hour  of  thought. 
Be  of  good  heart,  dear  madam.     Check  these  sorrows, 
That  wear  such  needless  furrows  in  your  cheeks. 


JSTORMAN     MAURICE. 

WIDOW.     They're  old  ones,  sir,  plougVd  twenty  years  ago. 

MAURICE.     Renew  them  not ! 

WIDOW.  And  yet,  if  what  I  hear  ! — 

Oh,  sir  !  they  tell  me  that  this  cruel  man 
Hath  sworn  a  horrible  oath  against  your  life, 
If  he  should  lose  his  case. 

MAURICE.  Ah  !  swears  he  then ! 

That  looks  as  if  he  felt  some  cause  of  fear  ! 

WIDOW.     Do  not  make  light  of  it,  I  do  entreat  you ! 
He's  a  most  desperate  ruffian  when  he's  thwarted, 
And  has  the  blood  of  many  on  his  hands  ! 
'Twas  said  he  left  the  army  for  his  murders, 
And  in  his  duels — 

MAURICE.  Let  me  see, — "  of  thirty, 

Wing'd  nineteen  combatants,  and  slew  the  rest !" 

CLARICE.     Oh !  horrible !     How  can  you  jest  upon  it  ? 

MAURICE.     I  jest ! 

CLARICE.     In  truth,  you  smile  not ! 

MAURICE.  Do  not  fear ! 

I  do  not  think  that  he  will  murder  me. 

CLARICE.     Yet  be  not  rash,  my  husband  ;  take  precautions, 
This  weapon —  [hands  him  a  small  dagger. 

MAURICE.     What !  your  dagger,  my  Clarice, 
This  pretty  Turkish  trifle  from  your  bodice, 
The  blade  mosaic — handle  wrought  in  pearl — 
The  sheath  of  exquisite  morocco,  dropp'd 
In  gold  and  green  !     This  ornament  for  masking, 
Were  a  frail  weapon  for  a  man's  defence  ! 
Nay,  keep  your  dagger,  child,  I  shall  not  need  it. 

CLARICE.     Be  not  so  confident. 

MAURICE.  Be  not  so  timid ! 

Who  looks  for  danger  surely  happens  on  it ! 
My  papers  there  !     You  go  with  me,  dear  madam.      [To  widow. 

WIDOW.  Thanks,  sir ! 


80  NORMAN    MAURICE. 

There  was  a  time  I  kept  my  carriage  ! 

MAURICE.     Be  hopeful :  you  shall  keep  it  once  a 
[Aside  to  Clarice^     I  feed  this  hapless  woman  with  . 
Such  as  it  glads  me  to  indulge  myself, — 
Yet,  should  I  err  in  judgment  \  - 

CLARICE,  [aside.]     Oh  !  should  you  fail  f 
Twould  break  her  heart. 

MAURICE.     'Twere  something  worse  than  death  T 

[Aside  to  Clarice 

But  we'll  not  fail  f     [aloud, .]     The  courage  bom  of  virtue 
Hath  still  a  holy  sanction  for  its  hope ; 
And  he  who  strives  with  justice  on  his  side, 
May  boldly  challenge  fortune  for  success, 
If  he  be  true  himself ! —  We  will  not  fail  f 
The  carriage  there  I    Come,  madam — for  the  Court-house  ! 


END     OF     ACT    THIRD. 


NOE  MAN    MAURICE.  81 


ACT    IV.  — SCENE    I. 

A  garden  in  the  rear  of  the  house  of  Norman  t  Maurice.  Walk 
through  a  thick  shrubbery.  Enter  Robert  Warren  and  Mrs. 
Jervas. 

WARREN.     So !    So  !     You  heard  it  all,  then  ?  . 

MRS.  J.     Every  syllable. 

WARREN.     Glorious  !     But  how  did  you  conceal  yourself  ? 

MRS.  J.     An  ante-room  conducts  us  to  the  hall 
Where  they  were  secretly  at  conference ; 
Thither,  when  she  descended  from  my  chamber, 
I  softly  folio w'd.     The  convenient  key-hole 
Gave  me  the  means,  at  once  to  hear  and  see  them. 

WARREN.     Your  foresight  shames  my.  thought !     And  so,  this 

Maurice, 

Denies  that  you  shall  harbor  in  his  dwelling  ? 
But  this  you  must  do  !     Your  security 
Lies  in  his  household  only  !     He  might  promise  you    • 
Your  lodging  in  St.  Louis, — board  and  clothing- — 
Ample  provision  for  your  state  in  future — 
But  once  you  free  his  household  of  your  presence, 
He  whistles  you  down  the  wind.     No  obligation 
Would  bind  him  to  the  care  of  you  hereafter  ! 

MRS.  J.     What  then  ?     He's  very  stubborn  in  his  spirit ! 

WARREN.     Why,  to  be  sure  !     The  very  thing,  dear  madam — 
Your  sickness  will  not  suffer  your  removal :' 
Fatigue  of  travel,  grief,  anxiety, 
Will  have  their  penalties ;  and  your  prostration 
Is  such,  that  all  the  world  would  say  'twas  monstrous 
To  drive  you, — you,  a  stranger  in  the  country, — 

4* 


82  NOR  MAN    MAURICE. 

The  home  of  the  one  kinswoman  that's  left  you  ! 
Your  notion  is  a  good  one  !     Norman  Maurice 
Is  not  the  man  to  urge  the  matter  on  you — 
An  invalid, — with  feeble  frame, — hot  fever — 
Confined  to  bed, — mind  somewhat  wandering ! — 
You're  right !     Methinks  you  need  no  counsel,  madam. 

MRS.  J.     I  see  !     'Twill  do  ! 

WARREN.  'Tis  excellent !     So,  Maurice 

Accepts  the  Senatorial  nomination, 
Though  still  his  pride  revolts  at  working  for  it. 
Well !     He's  not  Senator  yet.     The  widow's  case 
Will  bring  its  perils  too  ;  and,  at  the  finish, 
I'll  interpose  to  blight  his  growing  glories, 
And  show  him Hark !  a  footstep — 

MRS.  J.     Here  she  comes  ! 

WARREN.     Auspicious  !     Here,  away ;  and,  while  you  leave  us, 
I'll  open  a  brief  conference  with  her. 
Meanwhile,  'tis  well  you  put  your  scheme  in  progress ; 
Take  to  your  bed,  and  get  your  nostrums  ready ; 
Spare  not  your  groans  and  sighs — a  little  faintness 
Might  well  arrest  you  suddenly  in  your  speech ! 
And — but  enough.     The  thicket !     Here,  away  ! 

[They  retire  behind  the  copse. 

Enter  Clarice. 

CLARICE.     Now  all  my  sorrows  sink  into  the  sea, 
Since  Norman  rises  to  such  noble  height, 
The  first  in  his  desert  and  his  desire  ! 
Methinks,  till  now,  I  doubted  of  his  fortune, 
Nor  ever  felt  secure  from  sad  mischance ; 
The  gibe  of  envious  tongues,  the  jeer  of  malice, 
The  snares  of  bitter  foes,  and  those  dark  meshes, 
That  still  the  treacherous  hands  of  Warren  spread ! 
These  do  not  fright  me  now,  and,  though  his  presence, 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  83 

So  apt  with  coming  hither  of  my  aunt, 
Would  seem  to  shadow  forth  some  evil  purpose, 
Yet  can  I  not  esteem  it  cause  of  fear, 
Since  it  were  vain  for  such  as  he  to  struggle 
Against  the  noble  fortunes  of  my  husband. 

WARREN,  [coming  out  behind  her]     Indeed !  and  yet  the  shaft 

that  slew  the  lion, 
Was  but  a  reed  beside  the  sedgy  stream ! 

CLARICE,  [seeing  him  and  starting]     Ah ! 

WARREN,     The  little  scorpion  issuing  from  the  rock, 
First  slew  the  steed  whose  skull  he  'habited. 

CLARICE.     Thou  here  again ! 

WARREN.     If  but  to  teach  thee  in  philosophy ! — 
A  pebble  in  the  hand  of  shepherd  slinger, 
Smote,  so  we  learn  from  Sacred  History, 
The  proudest  giant  in  Philistia's  ranks. 

CLARICE.     And  he  whose  presence  still  offends  a  woman, 
But  little  dreams  what  champion  she  may  call. 

WARREN.     I  knew  your  champion  absent  ere  I  ventured. 
Your  highest  pitch  of  voice,  and  greatest  need, 
Would  never  bring  him  timely  to  your  succor. 

CLARICE.     What  means  this  threat  ? 

WARREN.  It  is  no  threat,  Clarice ; — 

You  will  not  need  a  champion  when  I'm  near  you. 

CLARICE.     And  if  I  did,  methinks,  in  Robert  Warren 
I  should  be  loth  to  seek  one  !     Why  come  hither, 
My  husband's  foe,  pursuing  still  his  fortunes, 
And  mine,  with  bitter  malice ! 

WARREN.     Thee  with  love  ! 

CLARICE.     Who  wrongs  the  husband,  cannot  love  the  wife ! 

WARREN.     Clarice,  'twas  in  my  passionate  love  for  thee, 
First  grew  the  passionate  hate  I  bear  thy  husband  ! 
'Till  thou,  with  fatal  beauty,  came  between  us, 
He  was  the  twin  companion  of  my  pleasures. — 


84  NO  11  MAX    MAURICE. 

My  first  associate  in  each  boyish  frolic, 
We  still  together  went,  by  hill  and  valley, 
Beside  the  stream,  and  through  th'  untrodden  forest, 
Having  no  faith  but  in  our  youthful  friendship, 
No  joy,  but  in  the  practice  shared  together. 
'Twas  thou  that  changed  my  kinsman  to  a  rival — 
'Twas  thou  that  changed  our  friendship  into  hate ; 
We  fell  apart,  suspecting  both,  and  loathing, 
When  first  our  mutual  hearts  inclined  to  thee ! 

CLARICE.     He  did  not  hate  thee — had  no  jealousy, 
But  still  confided  to  thee,  even  his  passion ; 
And  thou — alas !  audacious  that  thou  art, 
How  canst  thou  still  forget  that  I  too  know  thee, 
A  traitor  to  his  trust ! 

WARREN.  Have  I  denied  it  ? 

I  would  have  won  thee  from  my  dearest  kinsman. 
My  treachery  to  him  was  truth  to  thee ! 

CLARICE.     And  yet  'twas  fruitless  !     Was  it  not  enough 
That  thou  shouldst  fail  ?     Why  now— 

WARREN.  Enough ! 

Was  every  passion  to  be  wrecked  forever, 
In  that  which  had  denial  in  thy  scorn  ? 
With  love  denied,  was  vengeance — 

CLARICE.  Vengeance  !     Ha  I 

Is  it  his  life  thou  aim'st  at  now,  or  mine  ? 

WARREN.     Neither ! 

CLARICE.     What  then  ?     We're  separate  forever, — 
Our  lots  are  cast  apart, — our  lives  divided, — 
Why,  when  no  profit  comes  to  thee — no  pleasure, 
To  us,  at  this  dark  crossing  of  our  footsteps — 
Why  art  thou  here  ? — Why  vex  us  with  thy  presence, 
To  thy  own  deep  defeat  ? 

WARREN.  In  your  own  thoughts, 

Look  for  the  answer  to  this  teeming  question. 


NORMAN    MAURICE. 

You  know  me  well — enough  of  me  to  know, 

Whate'er  my  vices  or  deficiencies, 

I  am  no  simpleton,  but  have  a  cunning 

That  scarce  would  keep  me  profitlessly  working, 

Still  drawing  fruitless  waters  in  a  sieve  ! 

That  I  should  press  upon  your  husband's  footsteps, 

Would  prove  I  still  had  hope  of  my  revenge  ! 

That  I  should  seek  thee  in  thy  secret  bower, 

Would  show  me  still  not  hopeless  of  thy  love ! 

CLARICE.     Oh  !  vain  and  insolent  man  ! 

WARREN.  Hold,  a  little  ! 

If  hopeful  still  of  you,  'tis  through  the  prospect 
Of  vengeance  on  your  husband. 

CLARICE.     Face  him  then  ! 

WARREN.     You  but  increase  my  eager  thirst  for  vengeance, 
When  you  remind  me  of  the  frequent  struggle, 
Which  ended  in  my  overthrow  and  shame. 

CLARICE.     Is't  not  enough,  thus  baffled  and  defeated  ? — 
Why  thus  encounter  still  the  shame  and  danger  ? 

WARREN.     And  if  my  hope  lay  only  in  my  fortune — 
If  still  my  triumph  waited  on  my  strength, 
And,  to  the  skill  and  vigor  of  mine  arm, 
I  looked  to  win  the  vengeance  that  I  covet — 
I  should  forego  the  conflict,  as  you  counsel, 
And  leave  your  world  in  peace,  concealing  mine  ! 

CLARICE.     Well,  sir — you  pause ! 

WARREN.     I  would  have  had  your  thought 
Supply  the  words  of  mine ;  but,  as  it  does  not — 
Know  that  I  look  to  other  means  of  vengeance  ; 
Not  through  my  strength,  but  in  his  feebleness — 
Not  in  my  virtue,  but  your  husband's  vices  ! 

CLARICE.     Oh  !  hence  ! 

WARREN.     Y  _t,  hear  me !  at  this  very  moment 
Your  husbanu  seeks  the  pinnacle  of  power ; 


86  NORMAN    MAUKICE. 

He  stands  conspicuous  in  the  public  eye ; 
The  highest  place  awaits  him  in  the  state — 
The  highest  in  the  nation  !     At  a  word, 
I  can  o'erthrow  him  from  his  eminence, 
Can  make  his  name  a  by-word  and  a  mock, 
Degrade  him  from  his  rank,  and,  with  a  secret — 

CLARICE.     Shallow  and  impotent,  as  base  and  worthless  ! — 
Hence  with  your  secret !     Me  can  you  delude  not, 
Though  you  delude  yourself.     I  know  this  secret ! 

WARREN.     What !     Your  husband's  forgery  ? 

CLARICE.  Tour  forgery  ? 

Think  not  to  cheat  me  with  your  foul  contrivance. 
You  prated  of  his  skill  in  penmanship — 
Defied  it, — placed  examples  in  his  eye— 
And  he,  confiding — dreaming  not  that  one, 
The  kinsman  who  had  shared  his  home  and  bosom, 
Could  meditate  a  falsehood  or  a  crime — 
Wrote,  at  your  bidding,  sundry  names  of  persons  ; 
And,  with  these  names,  without  his  privity, 
Your  hand  devised  the  drafts  which  got  the  money — 
Your  hand  expended  what  your  guilt  procured, 
On  your  own  pleasures,  in  his  grievous  wrong — 
And  he  hath  paid  the  debt.     The  fatal  papers, 
Which  might  have  been  a  means  of  his  undoing, 
Were  burned  before  mine  eyes  ! 

WARREN.  Your  eyes  deceived  you. 

I'll  not  deny  your  story  of  the  fraud  ; 
But,  for  the  papers — let  me  whisper  you — 
They  were  not  burn'd — they  live  for  evidence — 
Are  now  in  my  possession — damning  proofs, 
For  the  conviction  still  of  Norman  Maurice. 

CLARICE.     Oh,  false  as  hell!     These  eyes  beheld  them  burning. 

WARREN.     Hark,  in  your  ear !     What  you  beheld  destroyed, 
Were  but  the  copies  of  originals, 


NORMAN    MAURICE. 

The  neatly  written  forgeries  of  forgeries : 
The  originals  are  mine  ! 

CLARICE.  Have  mercy,  heaven ! 

What  will  you  do  with  them  ? 

WARREN.     What  you  determine. 

CLARICE.     What  mean  you  ? 

WARREN.     What !  can  you  not  conjecture  ? 

CLARICE.     No,  as  I  live  ! 

WARREN.     What  should  I  do  with  them  ? 
Appease  my  hatred,  pacify  my  vengeance, — 
Wait  till  this  still  triumphant  enemy 
Puts  foot  upon  the  topmost  ring  of  the  ladder, 
Then  cut  away  the  lofty  props  that  raise  him, 
And  let  him  down  to  scorn  and  infamy. 
Another  day  would  make  him  senator, 
But  that  I  step  between,  and  show  these  papers, 
And  then  the  thousand  voices  in  his  honor, 
Pursue  him  with  their  hiss  ! 

CLARICE.  Hellish  malice ! 

Oh,  if  there  be  a  human  nature  in  thee, 
Forbear  this  vengeance. 

WARREN.     If  it  pleases  thee  ! 

CLARICE.     How,  if  it  pleases  me  ? 

WARREN.  .  See  you  not  yet  ? 

The  alternative  is  yours  to  let  him  perish, 
Or  win  the  eminence  that  still  he  seeks. 

CLARICE.     Tell  me  ! 

WARREN.     Be  mine  ! 

CLARICE,  [recoiling^  Thine ! 

WARREN.  Ay !  for  nothing  less 

Than  the  .sweet  honey  dew  that  lines  thy  lips, 
The  heaven  that  heaves  in  thy  embracing  bosom, 
Will  I  forego  this  vengeance. 

CLARICE.  God  have  mercy ! 


88  NORMAN    MAURICE. 

Yet  no !     I'll  not  believe  this  cruel  story ; 
Thou  hast  no  papers  !     I  must  see — 

WARREN.  Thou  shalt ! 

Meet  me,  Clarice,  at  sunset,  in  yon  thicket. 

CLARICE.         I  dare  not.     In  yon  thicket — 

WARREN.  Dare  you,  then, 

Behold  your  husband  perish  ? 

CLARICE.  You  but  mock. 

WARREN.  Wilt  have  me  swear  ? 

CLARICE.     What  oath  would  bind  a  wretch 
So  profligate  in  sin  ?     I  will  not  come ! 
My  husband's  honor  still  defies  your  arts, 
And  mine  defies  your  passion. 

WARREN.     You  have  doom'd  him  ! 

CLARICE.     Oh,  say  not  so  !     You  would  not  have  me  madden. 

WARREN.     I  swear  it !  .what  I  tell  you  is  the  truth. — 
I  have  these  papers,  own  this  fearful  power 
Upon  his  fame  and  fortune,  and  will  use  it — 

CLARICE.     And — if  I  come  ?  \Looking  vacantly. 

WARREN.         And  yield  you  to  my  passion, 
The  papers,  with  the  fatal  evidence, 
Shall  all  be  yours. 

CLARICE,  [<m'de.]         Be  resolute,  my  soul ! 
Heaven  help  me  in  this  strait  and  give  me  courage. 
[^4Zowc?.]     Bring  you  the  papers,  Robert  Warren ;  and — 

WARREN,  [eagerly .]     You'll  come  ? 

CLARICE.     If  I  have  strength  and  courage,  I  will  come. 

[Exit  Clarice,  sloiuly. 

WARREN.     Then  mine's  a  double  triumph  !    Fool ! — these  papers 
Shall  serve  a  twofold  purpose :  win  the  treasure, 
And  yet  confound  the  keeper  when  he  wakes ! 

[Exit  Warren. 


NOK  MAN    MAURICE.  80 


SCENE    II. 

r 

The  porch  of  the  Court-house  of  St.  Louis.  Norman  Maurice  abou, 
to  enter,  accompanied  by  the  Widow  Pressley  and  Kate,  is  de- 
tained by  Mercer  upon  the  threshold. 

MERCER.     A  word  with  you,  if  you  please. 

MAURICE.  Go  in,  madam, 

And  find  yourself  a  seat  until  I  come : 
I'll  follow  soon.  [  Widow  and  child  enter. 

MERCER.         This  case  will  keep  you  late, 
And  we  this  evening  hold  a  conference, 
Touching  the  course  of  the  debate  to-morrow ; — 
Were  it  not  better  you  took  bed  with  us, 
And,  in  the  mean  while,  lest  your  wife  grows  anxious, 
Advise  her,  by  a  billet,  of  your  purpose  ? 

MAURICE.     Well  thought  of.     I  will  do  so.  [going. 

MERCER.  Something  farther : 

Catesby  here  tells  me — but  he  comes :  here,  Catesby. 
What's  this  of  Savage  ?  .  [Enter  Catesby. 

CATESBY,  [to  Maurice."]     You've  won  the  Savage  heart. 
It  seems  that  Blasinghame  misdoubts  your  courage, 
And,  as  you  gave-  no  reference  on  his  challenge, 
Inclines  to  violence ;  and  has  bid  his  lambs 
Gather  about  him  to  behold  the  sport. 

MAURICE.     Ah,  sport ! 

CATESBY.     And  this  in  utter  scorn  of  Savage, 
Who  counsell'd  patience  till  the  time  is  over, 
Fix'd  by  you  for  your  answer.     Blasinghame 
Growls  sullen,  and  shows  Savage  a  cold  shoulder : 
Twas  he  himself  advised  that  you  be  watchful. 


00  NORMAN    MAURICE. 

MAURICE.     I  thank  him,  and  feel  grateful  to  the  Savage. 
As  for  this  Blasinghame,  he'll  have  need  to  growl, 
When  we  have  done  with  him.     But  farther — Catesby— 
Be  you  convenient,  and,  when  court  is  over, 
Meet  us  at  Mercer's.  , 

CATESBY.     I  shall  stay  the  trial. 

MAURICE.     Good.     Let  us  in  then.  [Exeunt  within. 

Enter  Blasinghame,  Savage,  and  others. 

BLASINGHAME.     That's  enough,  Joe  Savage. 
SAVAGE.     Ay,  if  it  answers. 

BLASINGHAME.     Answers  or  not,  I  tell  you,  still  enough. 
Your  counsel's  something  quite  unlike  yourself. 

SAVAGE.     And,  for  that  very  reason,  may  be  wisdom. 
BLASINGHAME.     Perhaps  ! — but  I'm  not  used  to  sudden  changes. 

1  will  take  farther  counsel  with  myself. 

SAVAGE.     Doubtless,  to  find  the  way  to  wise  conclusions. 
I  wash  my  hands  of  the  business. 

BLASINGHAME.  Pray  do  so  ! 

But,  see  you  Ferguson  ? 

SAVAGE.  He  follows  us, 

Yonder,  with  Matthews  and  the  stranger,  Warren. 

BLASINGHAME.     Well,  if  all  fails  to  bring  this  Maurice  down, 
That  fellow  hath  a  secret. 

SAVAGE.     What  is  it  ? 

BLASINGHAME.     Why,  something  that  should  please  you, — quite 

pacific — 

For  final  overthrow  of  this  man,  Maurice ; 
But  let  us  in.  I  should  be  rather  anxious, 
Having  at  stake  a  fortune  on  this  trial.  [Exeunt  within. 

Enter  Ferguson  with  books  and  papers,  accompanied  by  Warren. 

WARREN.     You  have  it  all,  sir.     At  the  public  meeting 
You  boldly  challenge  him  with  forgery, 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  91 

Call  on  me  to  produce  the  fatal  papers, 

And  summon  Richard  Osborne  to  confirm  them. 

FERGUSON.     We'll  crush  him  at  a  blow. 

WARREN.     'Till  then,  nothing ! 
The  shame  must  be  complete,  beyond  recovery. 
Let  him  stretch  forth  his  hand  to  gain  the  station, 
In  sight  of  all,  then,  in  remediless  ruin, 
Hurl  him  down  headlong. 

FERGUSON.  You  are  sure  of  him — 

Your  facts — your  proofs,  your  persons  ? 

WARREN.     Sure  as  fate  ! 

FERGUSON.     You  will  not  fail  us  ? 

WARREN.  Would  you  have  me  swear  ? 

Have  I  been  wrong'd,  and  do  I  hate  this  Maurice  ? 
Will  hate  forego  the  prospect  of  revenge  ? 
Revenge  reject  the  draught  that  quenches  thirst, 
And  he  who  long  has  dream'd  of  hidden  treasure, 
Turn  from  the  golden  prize,  at  last  his  own  ? 
Not,  if  the  hell  that  feeds  this  passion  fiercely, 
Bestow  the  needful  resolution  for  it ! 

FERGUSON.     And  this  man,  Osborne  ? 

WARREN.  He  has  had  his  lesson — 

He'll  answer  when  you  call  him. 

FERGUSON.  All  then  is  true  ? 

WARREN.     As  true  as  need  be  for  a  lawyer's  purpose, 
As  for  a  foe's. 

FERGUSON.  'Tis  very  pitiful — 

For,  though  I  like  him  not,  this  Norman  Maurice 
Is  still  a  man  of  wondrous  qualities ; — 
But  for  this  lapse  from  virtue  he  had  been 
Most  perfect. 

WARREN.     It  is  well  he  is  not  perfect, 
Or  he  had  put  humanity  to  the  blush, 
By  showing,  in  rough  contrast,  to  her  shame; 


92  NORMAN    MAUKICE. 

The  meaner  value  of  the  coin  she  carries. 

FERGUSON.     I  do  not  like  this  business,  but  our  need 
Will  not  permit  that  we  discuss  its  merits  ; — 
We'll  see  you  with  the  morrow. 

WARREN.  With  the  hour, 

That  hears  your  accusation  ! 

FERGUSON.     Good  !  [Exit  Ferguson  within. 

WARREN.  Ay,  good  ! 

It  could  not  well  be  better  for  our  purpose. 
The  mine  is  sprung,  the  victim  still  approaches, 
Unconscious,  and  my  hand  must  fire  the  train  ! 
But  here  comes  Osborne.     I  must  speak  him  sternly ; 
He  cannot  silence  me  with  womanish  scruples, — 
He  shall  not ! — Well,  our  scheme  works  famously. 

Enter  Osborne. 

OSBORNE.     Your  scheme  ;  not  mine! 

WARREN.  When  will  your  wisdom,  Osborne, 

Conceive  that  scheme  of  mine  is  scheme  of  yours, — 
Or  should  be  ?     Now,  then,  hear  our  present  purpose. 
Ferguson  brings  the  charge  ! 

OSBORNE.     What !  you  have  told  it  ? 

WARREN.     Only  to  him  ;  and  he  will  keep  it  safely, 
'Till  comes  the  proper  moment  for  explosion. 
When  our  young  senator,  in  public  meeting, 
Rises  to  answer  to  the  public  summons, 
And  take  the  coveted  laurel  to  his  brow, 
Then  will  we  loose  our  thunderbolt,  whose  bursting 
Tears  him  to  atoms. 

OSBORNE.  What  am  I  to  do,  then  ? 

What  wretched  part  must  I  play  in  this  business  ? 

WARREN.     A  minor  one,  'tis  true,  but  quite  important. 
You'll  be  my  echo.     When  I  give  the  signal, 
Confirm  my  statement  and  complete  our  proofs. 


NO  KM  AN     HAUKICE.  93 

OSBORNE.     Are  you  not  under  pledges  to  his  wife, 
To  yield  her  up  these  proofs  ? 

WARREN.     Ay,  on  conditions. 

OSBORNE.     Well ! 

WARREN.     What  of  that  ?     Another  means  of  vengeance  ! 
See  you  not  that  I  strike  him,  through  her  virtue, 
But  not  the  less  denounce  him  to  the  public. 
I'll  wheedle  her  with  a  promise  to  my  arms, 
Then  mock  the  easy  confidence  that  listen'd 
To  one  she  dared  despise. 

OSBORNE.  Oh,  Warren  !  Warren  ! 

Whither  would  you  cany  me — where  go  yourself  ? 

WARREN.     To  hell,  if  need  be,  so  I  gain  my  object  I—- 
Achieve the  conquest  that  to  me  is  heaven 

' 
Comprising,  as  it  must,  in  equal  measure, 

At  once  the  joys  of  passion  and  of  hate  ! 

For  you — remember,  Osborne— no  more  scruples  ! 

You  are  mine— soul,  body,  thought  and  feeling,  mine — 

And  these  shall  ply  as  still  my  passions  counsel, 

Or  woe  betide  the  rebel. 

OSBORNE.     Better  slay  me  ! 

WARREN.     Nay,  you're  not  fit  to  die  yet ;  nor  could  serve  me 
Hereafter,  half  so  usefully  as  now. 
At  dusk,  I  keep  the  meeting  with  our  beauty, 
And  thence  with  Matthews  to  a  secret  meeting. 
Look  for  me  home  at  midnight ;  and  to-morrow — 
Remember!  no  evasion.     Fix'd  as  fatal, 
My  will  nor  brooks  dissuasion  nor  defeat.  [Exit  Warren. 

OSBORNE.     Had  I  the  heart  to  perish,  'twere  less  pain, 
Than  bend  beneath  this  scourge  and  bear  this  chain. 

[Scene  closes. 


9tt  NOKMANMAUKICE. 


SCENE    III. 

An  apartment  in  the  dwelling  of  Norman  Maurice.     Enter  Clarice, 
reading  a  note. 

CLARICE.     Not  with  me  till  to-morrow !     "Tis  an  age ! 
The  first  night  separate  since  we  were  married. 
Yet  better  thus.     How  could  I  meet  my  Norman, 
Having  this  deep  concealment  in  my  heart, 
Nor  shudder  with  a  weight  of  shame,  whose  crimson 
Would  set  my  cheeks  on  flame  !     How  stifle  feeling, 
To  cling  in  fondness  to  his  manly  bosom, 
Nor  speak  the  terrible  purpose  in  my  heart, 
That  said,  would  stifle  his  !     'Tis  better  thus  ! 
Enough,  that  when  I  meet  him — meet  him — yes  ! — 
When  his  dear  voice  is  sounding  in  mine  ears, 
Full  of  the  conscious  triumphs  that  await  him, 
I  then  may  fling  myself  upon  his  breast, 
And  show  the  dire  necessity  that  made  me 
The  thing  I  dare  not  name, — and  plead  with  him, 
For  each  prompt  sacrifice  of  feminine  feeling ; 
The  nerve  that  rose  above  the  woman  weakness, 
As  still  the  tribute  to  his  fame  and  safety. 
He  will  forgive — will  bless  ; — and  if  he  does  not ! — 
Should  he  recoil  from  my  embrace,  and  show  me 
The  crimson  proof  of  shame  upon  my  garments, 
And  cry,  "  thy  hands,  that  once  were  white  and  spotl< 
Are  red  with  guilt :" — but  no — I  dare  not  think  it. 
Let  me  not  look  that  way.     Impossible ! 
Shall  I  not,  while  they  threaten,  steel  my  heart, 
Against  this  dread  necessity,  nor  tremble, 


NORMAN    MA  UKICE.  95 


Though  on  the  altars  of  his  fame  and  glory, 
I  bathe  this  white  and  innocent  hand  in  crime ! 
I  shudder,  yet  I  shrink  not.     Give  the  power, 
God,  to  this  heart,  against  the  coming  hour  ! 


SCENE    IV. 

Open  space  before  the  Court-house  of  St.  Louis.     Groups  of  Law- 
yers and  Citizens. 

IST  LAWYER.     Didst  hear  the  speech  of  Maurice  in  this  case  ? 

2o  LAWYER.     'Twas  terrible  ! 

IST  LAWYER.  I  never  heard  the  like  ! 

And  when  he  did  discourse  of  Blasinghame, — 
His  first  wrong  to  the  widow — his  denial 
Of  the  poor  orphan's  right — his  violence 
To  those  who  strove  to  serve  her  interests — 
The  picture  that  he  painted  was  so  monstrous, 
That  every  heart  grew  cold. 

3o  LAWYER.  And  Blasinghame, 

Himself — didst  note  him  ? 

2D  LAWYER.     'Twas  another  picture ! 

IST  LAWYER.  He  sat  a  spectacle  of  ghastly  fury, 

That  had  moved  pity,  could  we  have  forgotten 
His  looks  at  the  beginning  of  the  case. 
At  first,  how  bold  he  seem'd — with  what  defiance ; 
Next,  with  what  doubt ;  then  follow'd  his  dismay — 
And  last,  his  fury ;  while,  with  impotent  rage, 
And  something,  as  it  seem'd,  of  shame  and  horror, 
In  his  own  spite  at  what  the  other  drew, 
He  crouch'd  at  last  beneath  the  terrible  scourging, 
And  half  escaped  from  sight. 


96  N  O  R  M  A  N    M  A  U  R  I  C  E . 

2D  LAWYER.  I  saw  him  clutching 

The  panel  that  he  lean'd  on,  as  for  help, 
While,  beaded  on  his  forehead,  the  big  sweat 
Still  gather'd  as  it  fell ;  and,  on  his  lips 
The  stain  of  red  that  mingled  with  the  foam, 
Show'd  how  he  had  even  bitten  through  his  lips, 
In  his  great  agony,  and  knew  it  not. 

IST  LAWYER.     The  judge  has  charged  the  jury  ? 

2o  LAWYER.  He  was  charging 

Just  when  I  left.     I  could  not  stand  it  longer—- 
As much  exhausted  at  the  stern  excitement, 
As  Blasinghame  himself. 

IST  LAWYER.  For  Ferguson, 

The  up-hill  work  was  pitiful.     To  follow, 
With  such  a  case,  a  speaker  such  as  Maurice, 
Was  quite  as  killing  to  himself  as  client. 
Nobody  heard,  or  cared  to  hear,  his  pleading — 
Not  even  the  jury. 

2D  LAWYER.     What  will  be  the  verdict  ? 

IST  LAWYER.     Why,  who  can  doubt  ?    The. insuppressible  groan 
That  broke  from  every  breast — the  gaze  of  fury 
That  blazed  in  every  eye,  when,  pointing  slowly, 
And  shaking  with  such  dire  significance, 
The  hand  of  Maurice  fix'd  on  Blasinghame, 
As  still,  with  holy  horror  in  his  accents, 
He  spoke  his  wonder,  that,  with  guilt  so  hideous, 
He  still  could  brave  the  gaze  of  man  and  justice  ! — 
That  groan  and  glance  declared  the  popular  judgment, 
And  such  will  be  the  verdict. 

2o  LAWYER.     Hark !  that  cry — 

IST  LAWYER.  Declares  it. 

[Shouts  in  the  porch  as  the  people  rush  out  of  the  Court-house^ 

IST  CITIZEN.     Hurrah  for  Norman  Maurice  ! 

2b  CITIZEN.     The  widow's  friend ! 

• 


NORMAN     MAUEICE.  97 

SD  CITIZEN.     The  people's  man  forever ! 
2o  LAWYER.     There  speaks  the  popular  heart. 
IST  LAWYER,  A  glorious  voice, 

That  makes  him  senator. 

2o  LAWYER.     Hark !  he  comes  forth. 

Enter  Maurice,  with  widow  Pressley  and  Kate,  followed  by  Mercer 
Brooks,  Catesby,  and  others.     Shouts. 

WIDOW.     Ah !  sir.     God's  blessing  on  you, — make  us  happy, 
And  take  the  half  of  all  you've  got  for  us  ! 

MAURICE.     Not  for  the  world,  dear  madam  !     I'll  not  forfeit 
The  pure  delight  I  feel  in  serving  virtue 
For  its  own  sake  !     In  lifting  the  down-trodden, 
For  sake  of  wrong'd  humanity !     No  more.  [People  shout. 

IST  VOICE.     Hurrah  for  Norman  Maurice ! 

2o  VOICE.     The  widow's  friend  ! 

3D  VOICE.     The  people's  man  forever  1 

MAURICE,  [to  Mercer.]     Let  us  get  hence. 
Dear  madam,  take  my  carriage, 
And  bear  the  grateful  tidings  to  my  wife ; 
Remain  with  her  to-day  while  I  am  absent ; — 
To-night,  as  still  it's  like,  I  shall  be  absent, 
Rejoice  her  with  our  triumph.     She  expects  you ! 

WIDOW.     I  have  no  thanks — no  words, — my  tongue  is  frozen. 

MAURICE.     'Tis  that  the  thaw  is  wholly  at  your  heart ! 
Go  hence.     Escort  her,  Mercer,  to  the  carriage. 

[Exeunt  Widow,  Kate,  and  Mercer. 

CATESBY,  [whispering  to  Maurice.]     Look  to  it,  Maurice — here 
comes  Blasinghame ! 

Enter  Blasinghame  with  others. 

BLASINGHAME.     Where  is  he  !     Let  me  see !     Ha,  give  me  way ! 
[Forces  through  the  crowd,  rushes  upon  Maurice,  striking 
him  with  a  stick. 
VOL.  i.  5 


98  NOEMANMAUEICE. 

Villain,  my  blows  make  answer  to  thy  speech ! 

MAURICE.     A  blow — and  I  no  weapon  !     But  it  needs  none — 
When,  with  such  powerful  passions  in  my  heart, 
I  feel  my  sinews  fortified  with  strength, 
To  drag  a  thousand  tigers  to  my  feet. 
Thus,  monster,  that  hast  trampled  on  a  people, 
Defied  their  virtues — at  their  sufferings  mock'd — 
Thus,  with  my  foot  upon  thy  stubborn  neck, 

I  trample — I  degrade  thee  to  the  dust !  [Seizes  Blasinghame 

by  the  throat,  hurls  him  to  the  ground,  and  stands  upon 
his  neck.     Shouts  of  the  people. 

IST  CITIZEN.     Hurrah  for  Norman  Maurice ! 

2o  CITIZEN.     The  people's  friend  ! 

3o  CITIZEN.     The  champion  of  the  widow  ! 

CATESBY,  \interposing '.]    Enough,  sir.    Let  him  rise.    I'll  whisper 

him 
Where  he  can  find  us. 

MAURICE.     Now,  within  the  hour  1 

[Catesby  and  Savage  lift  Blasinghame. 

CATESBY.     Colonel  Blasinghame ! 

BLASINGHAME.     Where  is  he  ?     Give  me  way  1 

MAURICE,  \confronting  him^     Here ! 

SAVAGE,  [interposing .]     Enough  of  this  1 
I  see!     You'll  be  at  Mercer's.    [To  M.] 

MAURICE.     Ay,  now ! 

SAVAGE.     No  more !     Come,  Blasinghame. 

BLASINGHAME.     You,  Joe ! 
Well,  you  are  true,  boy,  and  I  did  you  wrong. 
Forgive  me  !     You  will  see  to  this.     This  man 
Hath  had  his  cursed  foot  upon  my  neck ! 
You  saw  it ! — ha  !     You  saw  it ! 

SAVAGE.     He  will  meet  you  ! 

BLASINGHAME.     Ha,  Joe !     Your  hand.     But  when  ? 

SAVAGE.     Within  the  hour ! 


NORMAN     MAURICE.  99 

BLASINGHAME.     Good !     See  to  it.     Ha,  ha.     Methinks — 

SAVAGE.  ~No  more ! — 

Away  with  me  at  once ;  you  must  not  linger. 

BLASINGHAME.     Methinks  I  could  drink  blood.    I'm  very  thirsty. 
[Exeunt  Blasinghame  and 

CATESBY.     Come,  let  us  get  in  trim.     Are  you  a  shot  ? 

MAURICE.     No ! 

CATESBY.     Ah  !  that's  unfortunate  ! 

MAURICE.  You  think  so  ? — 

Never  you  matter,  Catesby :  I  will  kill  him ! 


END     OF     ACT     FOURTH. 


100  NOBMAN    MAURICE. 


ACT   V.  — SCENE   I. 

A  chamber  in  the  house  of  Col.  Mercer.     Norman  Maurice  and 
Catesby  discovered. 

CATESBY.     The  challenge  comes  from  Blasinghame.   This  gives  us 
Advantages,  which  we  should  rightly  use, 
'Gainst  one  so  old  in  practice. 

MAURICE.  We  shall  use  them : — 

The  weapon  for  example.     Mine's  the  small  sword. 

CATESBY.     The  small  sword !     Blasinghame  expects  the  pistol. 

MAURICE.     We  have  the  right  in  this  and  other  matters ; — 
I  waive  the  rest ;  but  this  we  must  insist  on. 
'Twas  still  my  fancy,  upward  from  my  boyhood, 
That,  next  to  lance  and  spear,  the  proper  weapon 
For  honorable  combat  is  the  sword ; — 
Admitting  grace  of  movement  and  decision, 
Allowing  still  discretion  to  the  champion, — 
Obeying  all  the  changes  of  his  temper, 
And,  as  the  enemy  betrayed  his  purpose, 
Giving  him  power  to  spare  or  slay  at  pleasure, 
Or  simply  to  draw  blood  and  to  disarm. 

CATESBY.     You've  learn'd  to  use  the  weapon  ? 

MAURICE.  But  a  little ! 

Some  confidence,  at  least,  in  eye  and  motion, 
Grew  from  my  youthful  practice ;  and  a  passage, 
With  the  bright  rapiers  flashing  in  the  sunlight, 
Was  ever  such  a  pleasure  to  my  spirit, 
That  I  am  half  content  to  risk  the  duel, 
For  the  excitement  of  the  keen  dispute  ! 
'Tis  long  since  I  have  exercised,  but  nature 


NOEMAN   Jt'ATJRLGSy,-,  J/ ,  ^  -         101 

Hath  so  endow'd  me,  that  a  play  acquired, 

I  never  yet  have  lost.     'Tis  fortunate, 

That  I  have  made  provision  for  this  practice, 

And  have  with  me  two  reeds  of  Milan  steel, 

In  all  respects  so  equal,  that  a  swordsman 

Would  linger  long  to  choose. — But  here  comes  Savage ! 

Enter  Savage. 

SAVAGE.     Save  you,  gentlemen. 

MAURICE.         Your  hand,  sir.     We  are  ready : 
We  know  your  business.     Here  is  Captain  Catesby, 
Who  will  discuss  with  you  the  needful  matters. 

CATESBY.     Our  policy  demands  the  immediate  issue^ 
Lest  friends  or  officers  should  interpose. 
Within  the  hour, — or,  at  the  least,  by  sunset, 
This  meeting  should  be  had. 

SAVAGE.  You  cannot  have  it 

Too  soon  for  Blasinghame.     You  know  the  man  ! 
Well !  what  the  weapon  ? 

CATESBY.     We  shall  choose  the  small  sword. 

SAVAGE.     The  small  sword  !     Why — 'tis  not  the  usual  weapon. 

MAURICE.     As  much  as  any  other.     France  and  Poland — 
Indeed,  most  countries  of  the  continent, 
Where'er  society  allows  the  duel, — 
Employ  it — 

CATESBY.     And,  you  know,  in  Louisiana  ? — 

SAVAGE.     The  pistol's  the  more  equal. 

CATESBY.  Were  Blasinghame, 

Or  Maurice,  feeble,  and  the  other  strong, 
That  were,  perhaps,  an  argument,  but — 

MAURICE.     And,  if  the  question's  courage,  Major  Savage, 
As  I  am  told  your  friend  is  pleased  to  make  it, 
Somewhat  at  my  expense,  then,  let  me  tell  you, 
Cold  steel  will  better  try  the  manly  bosom, 


102  -,  i     S  ^"^rCRHJ;* 

Than  any  decent  distance  with  the  pop-gun. 

If  I  remember,  Colonel  Blasinghame 

Hath  served  in  the  army,  worn  the  soldier's  weapon, 

And  will  not  scruple  at  its  use  in  season. 

SAVAGE.  Your  words  decide  it : 

You  have  the  right — the  small  sword  be  it  then. 

MAURICE,  [giving  swords]     Here  are  two  noble  weapons — better 

never 

Play'd  in  the  spiral  and  conflicting  circle, 
Above  the  head  whose  life  was  made  the  forfeit 
In  the  delirious  conflict.     Take  them  with  you ; 
Your  friend  can  choose  from  them,  or  note  the  measure 
Of  that  which  I  employ. 

SAVAGE.     At  sunset,  then. 

CATESBY.     The  place  ? — 

MAURICE.  If  you  will  suffer  me — there  is, 

By  Baynton's  meadow,  a  sweet  bit  of  copse, 
East  of  it,  through  which  runs  an  Indian  trail : — 
It  leads  us  to  a  patch  of  open  lawn, 
Level,  and  smooth,  and  grassy — a  fit  place 
For  one  to  fight,  or  sleep  on  ! 

SAVAGE.  Be  it  there,  then. 

And  now  I  leave  you,  gentlemen :  an  hour 
Remains  for  preparation  ere  we  meet !  [Exit  Savage. 

CATESBY.     You  are  the  coolest  person — for  a  person 
That  never  was  in  combat.     You  will  kill  him  ! 

MAURICE.     Not  if  I'm  cool  enough  !     I  fain  would  spare  him, 
Now,  that  I  see  him  not.     But  when  before  me, 
And  I  behold  in  him  the  insulting  tyrant, 
That  robs  the  feeble  and  defies  the  strong 
I  feel  a  passionate  anger  in  my  heart, 
That  makes  me  long  to  trample  him  to  dust ! 

CATESBY.     What  more,  but  seek  the  surgeon  and  the  carriage ! 

"MAURICE.     I'm  ready  when  you  please. 


NOKMAN    MAURICE.  103 

CATESBY.     Within  the  hour  !  [Exit  Catesby. 

MAURICE.     My  poor  Clarice !  she  sits  beside  the  window, 
And  with  a  vacant  spirit  still  looks  forth, 
Unthinking,  yet  still  dreaming  that  I  come. 
What  a  long  night  to  both — and  that  to-morrow ! 
Well !  it  will  chide  her  tears,  and  soothe  my  sorrow. 

[Scene  closes. 


SCENE    II. 

The  entrance  of  a  thick  wood  near  the  dwelling  of  Norman  Maurice. 
Sunset.     Robert  Warren  discovered. 

WARREN.     The  sun  is  at  its  set,  and  yet  she  comes  not. 
Can  she  have  faltered — what  doth  she  suspect, — 
What  fear !     It  sinks,  and  hark — her  footstep. 
Now  comes  our  triumph — now  !  [Retires  into  the  wood. 

Enter  Clarice. 

CLARICE.  Oh,  if  I  err, 

I  that  am  feeble,  and  though  feeble,  loving, — 
Devoted,  where  the  sacrifice  is  needful, — 
Willing  to  die  for  him  whose  dear  devotion, 
Hath  made  it  my  religion  still  to  love  him — 
Oh,  God  have  mercy  on  the  hapless  error, 
That  grows  from  love's  necessities  alone ! 
If  in  my  death  his  triumph  may  be  certain, 
My  breast  is  ready  for  the  knife.     I  need 
No  prayer,  no  prompting  to  the  sacrifice, 
That  saves  him  from  the  wreck  of  all  his  hopes, 
And  honor  with  them.     Let  me  now  not  falter  ! 
Forgive  me,  Heaven,  in  pity  to  the  weakness 
That  knows  not  how  to  'scape.     If  it  be  crime, — 
The  deed,  which  I  have  brooded  o'er,  until 


104:  NORMAN    MA  UK  ICE. 

My  shuddering-  fancy  almost  deems  it  done — 
By  which  I  do  avoid  the  loathlier  crime ; 
Let  not  the  guilt  lie  heavy  on  my  soul, 
As  solemnly  I  do  profess  myself, 
Most  free  from  evil  purpose,  and  most  hating 
That  which  meseems  the  dread  necessity 
That  shadows  all  my  fortune  !     God  have  pity, 
And  show  the  way,  that  still  unseen  before  me, 
Lies  open  for  my  rescue  I    Ha,  'tis  he  1 

WARREN,  [reenters.]     Methinks,  Clarice,  you  come  reluctantly. 
Your  husband's  fate — the  dangers  that  await  him, 
That  do  appear  so  terrible  to  me, 
Would  seem  to  touch  you  not. 

CLARICE.  I'll  not  believe  it  f 

I  tell  you  I  must  see  these  fatal  papers — 
Must  feel  them — spell  and  weigh  each  syllable. 
Ere  I  believe  you  ! 

WARREN.     Said  I  not  you  should  ? 

CLARICE.     Show  me  them.     I'm  here. 

WARREN.     Come  hither,  then. 

CLARICE.     What !  in  the  deeper  darkness  of  the  wood  ? 
No !     Here ! 

WARREN.     What  1  dost  forget  my  recompense  ? 
Wouldst  thou  the  naked  heaven  behold  our  pleasures  ? 

CLARICE.     Oh,  Heaven !  sustain  me !     Let  me  not  go  mad  ; 
That  I  may  hear  unmoved  this  foul  assailant, 
Nor  show,  to  baffling  of  my  hope  and  purpose, 
The  loathing  that  I  feel !     [Aside. 

WARREN.  The  proof  is  ready — 

Wherefore  dost  thou  linger  ? 

CLARICE,  [eagerly .]  Ha  !  then  thou  hast  it — 

Here,  in  thy  bosom — here,  in  yonder  wood. 

WARREN.  Even  as  thou  sayest — here,  within  my  bosom  ; 

But  'tis  in  yonder  wood  that  thou  shalt  see  it. 


NORMAN    MA  UK  ICE.  ^,  105 

Behold  !  [Takes  the  papers  from  his  bosom  and  waves 

her  to  the  wood. 

CLARICE.     Give  me  to  see  them. 

WARREN.     Yes ! 

CLARICE.     But  here ! 

WARREN.     No — there !  [  Waving  papers  and  retiring. 

CLARICE.     Show  me !     I  come  !     [Following, 

WARREN.  Yet  farther.     Follow  me  ! 

By  yon  red  oak,  where  the  dark  thicket  spreads, 
Where  silence,  and  her  twin,  security, 
Brood  ever,  and  declare  for  loving  hearts 
Their  meet  protection  in  this  lonely  shade. — 
Thither,  Clarice!  [Retires  from  sight,  beckoning  with  the  papers. 

CLARICE.  Thither,  then ;  I  follow  thee ! 

Thou  dost  implore  thy  fate !     I  follow  thee 
Where  shadow  and  silence  both  invoke  with  speech, 
Too  potent  for  my  feeble  prayer  and  plaint, 
A  shadow  and  a  silence  yet  more  deep  ! 
They  awfully  declare  a  hideous  worship 
Where  Horror  sits  supreme,  and  summons  me 
To  make  befitting  sacrifice.     My  soul, 
Be  firm  of  purpose  now.     Nerves,  do  not  falter, 
When  that  I  do  demand  your  resolute  office. 
I  dare  not  call  on  Heaven  to  help  my  weakness, 
But  from  the  indulgent  mercy,  born  of  Heaven, 
Implore  the  saving  grace  I  may  not  merit. 

WARREN,  [within.]     Clarice ! 

CLARICE.     Ha,  then,  I  come  to  thee. 
Fool !  thou  entreat'st  a  Fury  to  thy  arms, 
And  not  a  woman.     Thou  wouldst  have  my  love — 
Partake  of  my  embrace — my  kiss — thou  shalt ! 
My  husband — 'tis  for  thee  ! 

WARREN,  [within.]     Clarice ! 

CLARICE.  He  calls  me  ! 

5* 


106  NORMAN    MAURICE. 

I  do  but  answer  to  his  summons  !     Ha  ! 
Another  voice  is  sounding  in  mine  ears, — 
And  many  voices  !     One  of  them  is  Norman's, — 
He  calls  ! — he,  too,  implores  me  to  the  wood  ! 
There  will  he  meet  with  Warren.     If  he  meets  him, 
I  know  what  then  must  happen.     I  must  thither. 
His  voice  again.     It  sinks  into  a  murmur — 
Mix'd  murmurs  follow  of  a  crowd !     What  is  it, 
That  rolls  so  dully  in  my  brain,  and  makes  me 
Uncertain  of  my  footstep  ?     Oh !  the  horror 
Of  this  strange  weakness  !     Ha ! 

WARREN,  [ivithin  the  wood.]     Clarice ! 

CLARICE.  He  calls ! 

Thrice  !  Thrice  !  It  is  decreed.  I  come — I  come  !  [Exit  within  : 
a  moment  after  a  cry  of  agony,  and  then  a  sound  as  of  a 
falling  body.  Reenter  Clarice  with  papers  in  her  hand, 
and  garments  all  bloody. 

CLARICE.     Ha,  ha,  I  have  them !     I  could  laugh !     Ha !  ha ! — 
But  for  this  horrible  silence.     Yet,  I  have  them ! 
He  would  have  kept  them  from  me — he.     Ha,  ha  ! 
But  would  I  suffer  him  when  he  threaten'd  Norman, 
My  husband,  with  dishonor — my  brave  husband, 
That  even  now  is  rising  in  the  nation, 
Among  the  great,  in  the  high  places  of  power, 
Rank'd  with  the  men  most  eminent.     Dear  Norman  ! 
Ha ! — ha  !  I'm  very  happy  now.     I  have  the  papers, 
The  proof,  and  Norman  is  made  Senator, 
Spite  of  this  wretched  liar !     He'll  lie  no  more. 
He  wish'd  for  my  embrace,  and  sure  he  had  it ! 
Such  close  embrace^  so  sharp,  so  sudden,  sweet, 
It  made  him  shriek  and  shrink  with  such  a  pleasure, 
As  men  endure  not  twice.  [Groan  within. 

God !  what  is  that !  [bosom. 

A  footstep  !     He  pursues  me  for  the  papers.    [Thrusts  them  into  her 


JSTORMAN    MAURICE.  107 

He  shall  not  have  them.     No — I  have  no  papers. 

He  comes  !     Home — Norman — Home !    Home !    Home !  my  Nor- 


man i 


[Exit  wildly,  looking  behind  her  as  she  departs. 


SCENE    III. 

The  wood  behind  Baynton's  meadow.  Enter  from  opposite  sides, 
Norman  Maurice,  Catesby,  Surgeon ;  and  Colonel  Blasinghame 
Savage,  Surgeon. 

SAVAGE.     Can  nothing  reconcile  our  parties,  Catesby  ? 

CATESBY.     The  invitation  to  the  field  is  yours  : 
Yours  still  must  be  each  overture  for  peace. 

SAVAGE.     What  will  content  you,  Blasinghame  ? 

BLASINGHAME.     His  blood ! 

SAVAGE,  [to  Catesby.']     I'm  sorry,  but  you  hear  ? 

CATESBY.  To  business,  then ! 

Maurice  is  at  his  post ;  so,  place  your  man. 

[Maurice  and  Blasinghame  confront  each  other. 

MAURICE.     Art  ready,  sir? 

BLASINGHAME.     For  vengeance  !     You  have  foiFd  me — 
Disgraced  me  in  the  eyes  of  all  our  people, 
So,  look  to  it,  for  by  the  God  that  made  me, 
I'll  write  my  living  tortures  on  your  heart ! 

MAURICE.     Your  blood  upon  your  head ! 

[They  fight.     Maurice  disarms  him. 

BLASINGHAME.     Curse  on  the  weapon ! 

MAURICE.     Curse  not  the  weapon  ! — curse  the  hand,  the  heart — 
The  cause, — which  have  betrayed  you  ; — not  the  weapon  ! 
Your  life  is  at  my  mercy  ! 

BLASINGHAME,  [folding  his  arms.]  Take  it,  then  ! 

I  would  not  live  dishonor'd.     You  may  slay  me, 


108  NO  II  it  AN    M  A  U  It  I  Cf  E . 

But  cannot  conquer  me. — My  breast  is  open  ! 

MAURICE.     I  will  not  slay  you.     I  will  conquer  you. 
Your  life  is  mine.     I  give  it  you.     Live  on, 
A  wiser  and  a  better  man  hereafter. 

BLASINGHAME,  [tottering  and   turning  awayj]     My  strength  is 

gone  from  me ;  my  heart  is  crush 'd. 
Look,  Savage, — these  are  tears,  and  not  of  blood. 
Come  with  me,  for  I  falter.  [Going. 

SAVAGE,  [to  Maurice^  You're  a  man 

Among  ten  thousand,  Maurice.     Now,  forgive  him. 
He  weeps.     The  strong  man  weeps. — I  must  go  with  him, 
But  know  me  for  your  friend. 

[Exit  Savage  following  Blasinghame. 

CATESBY.  'Twas  nobly  done. 

When  I  consider  Blasingharne's  career, 
His  brutal  murders,  his  long  tyrannies, 
The  provocation  you  have  had  to  slay  him — 
I  marvel  that  you  spared  him.     Sir,  your  triumph 
Is  now  without  alloy. 

MAURICE.  I'm  glad  yon  think  so, 

Yet  deem  the  merit  of  forbearance  small. 
Had  he  been  bolder,  I  had  never  spared  him  ; 
But  could  not  strike  him  when,  with  folded  arms, 
He  stood  to  meet  the  stroke.     But — let's  to  Mercer. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE    IV. 
The  chamber  of  Richard  Osborne.     Enter  to  him  Harry  Matthews. 

MATTHEWS.     Where's  Warren  ? 
OSBORNE.     I've  not  seen  him. 
MATTHEWS.     Not  since  when  ? 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  109 

OSBORNE.     Noon  yesterday. 

MATTHEWS.  Indeed.     'Twas  then  we  parted. 

He  promised  to  meet  with  me  last  night  at  Baylor's. 

OSBORNE.     And  came  not  ? 

MATTHEWS.     No.     'Twas  probable  his  business — 
For  you  must  know  his  hands  are  full  at  present — 
Was  quite  too  grateful  and  too  full  of  profit, 
To  make  him  leave  it  soon.     I  marvell'd  not 
That  he  should  fail  us  then  ;  but  now,  this  morning, 
When,  by  agreement,  he  should  breakfast  with  us — 
And  here's  the  hour — that  he  should  still  be  absent, 
Seems  something  strange.     He  must  be  at  the  meeting, 
Or  we  are  done  forever. 

OSBORNE.     What's  the  meeting  ? 

MATTHEWS.     One  of  both  parties,  meant  for  caucussing, 
Popular  wholly  in  its  character, 
Whose  temper  will  determine  our  Assembly 
As  to  its  choice  of  Senator  in  Congress. 

OSBORNE.     Ay, — indeed. 

MATTHEWS.     You'll  be  there  ? 

OSBORNE.     Yes ;  I  promised  him. 

MATTHEWS.     Who  ?     Warren  ? 

OSBORNE.     Yes. 

MATTHEWS.  I  must  go  look  for  him. 

We  must  not  risk  our  fortunes  by  delay. 
His  voice  may  help  to  make  our  Senator.     [Exit  Matt. 

OSBORNE.     Would  he  were  dumb  or  I !     Alas !  these  murmurs, 
How  feeble — since  the  fetters  are  about  me, 
And  but  one  way  remains — to  curse  and  perish.  [Exit. 


110  NO KM AN    MAURICE. 


SCENE    V. 
The  open  street.     Ferguson  and  Matthews. 

FERGUSON.     What  quest  was  that,  I  pray  ? 

MATTHEWS,  \smiling^\  I  must  not  tell  it — 

A  lady's  in  the  secret. 

FERGUSON.  Keep  it  then. 

But  give  yourself  no  farther  care  for  Warren. 
His  last  words,  when  we  parted  yesterday, 
Implied  his  absence  till  the  latest  moment. 
He'll  be  with  us  to-day,  when  we  are  ready. 

MATTHEWS.     'Twill  do  no  harm  at  least  to  hurry  him. 

FERGUSON.     Have  you  seen  Blasinghame  ? 

MATTHEWS.     This  morning  ?     No. 

FERGUSON.     You  know  not  he  and  Maurice  fought  at  sunset  ? 

MATTHEWS.     Indeed  !     How  did  they  fight  ? 

FERGUSON.     With  swords. 

MATTHEWS.     What  then  1 

FERGUSON.     Why,  Maurice  had  him  at  his  mercy ! 

MATTHEWS.     And  spared  his  life  ? 

FERGUSON.     He  did,  but  had  been  much  more  merciful 
To  have  taken  it, — for  he  has  crush'd  the  other  ! 

MATTHEWS.     How !     Blasinghame ! 

FERGUSON.     Has  wither'd  in  a  night. 

MATTHEWS.     Good  Heaven  !     Impossible  !    What !     Imbecile  ! 

FERGUSON.     He  stares  in  vacancy — his  hair's  grown  white, — 
He  trembles  as  with  palsy,  and  he  weeps, 
Even  as  an  infant ! 

MATTHEWS.     What  a  change  is  this ! 


NORMAN    MAUEICE.  Ill 

FERGUSON.     He's  useless  to  us  now  ;  and  Savage  grows 
More  friendly  now  to  Maurice  than  to  me. 

MATTHEWS.     This  Maurice  wrecks  us  all. 

FERGUSON.  But,  in  an  hour, — 

Let  Warren  be  but  faithful  to  his  pledges, 
And  we  shall  see  his  vessel  in  a  tempest, 
Such  as  no  bark  can  weather. 

MATTHEWS.  Be  it  so — 

My  breath  shall  not  be  wanting  to  the  blow !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE    VI. 

The  interior  of  the  City  Hall  of  St.  Louis.  A  raised  platform  in 
the  centre.  Citizens  crowding  about  it.  Chairman  presiding  and 
seated  with  other  distinguished  men.  On  one  hand,  Ferguson  and 
others — opposite,  Norman  Maurice,  Mercer,  Brooks,  d'c.  Norman 
Maurice  discovered  speaking. 

MAURICE.     Thus  have  we,  sir,  discuss'd  the  several  questions 
Involved  in  this  upon  the  Constitution — 
I  trust  that,  on  this  instrument,  I  speak 
The  doctrines  of  Missouri.     I  would  have  it 
A  ligament  of  fix'd,  unchanging  value, 
Maintain'd  by  strict  construction, — neither  warp'd, 
Nor  stretch'd,  nor  lopt  of  its  now  fair  proportions, 
By  the  ambitious  demagogue  or  statesman, 
Who,  with  the  baits  of  station  in  their  eyes, 
Still  sacrifice  the  State  !     Our  policy, 
Should  hold  ours  as  a  linked  realm  of  nations 
Where  each  one  sits  secure,  however  feeble, 
And,  pointing  to  the  sacred  written  record, 


112  N  OEM  AN    MA  UK  ICE. 

Finds  in  it  her  Palladium.    Government, 
We  hold  to  be  the  creature  of  our  need, 
Having  no  power  but  where  necessity, 
Still  under  guidance  of  the  Charter,  gives  it. 
Our  taxes  raised  to  meet  our  exigence, 
And  not  for  waste  or  favorites — our  people 
Left  free  to  share  the  commerce  of  the  world, 
Without  one  needless  barrier  on  their  prows  ! 
Our  industry  at  liberty  for  venture, 
Neither  abridged,  nor  pamper'  d ;  and  no  calling 
Preferred  before  another,  to  the  ruin, 
Or  wrong  of  either.     These,  sir,  are  my  doctrines ! 
They  are  the  only  doctrines  which  shall  keep  us 
From  anarchy,  and  that  worst  peril  yet, 
That  threatens  to  dissever,  in  the  tempest, 
That  married  harmony  of  hope  with  power, 
Which  keeps  our  starry  Union  o'er  the  storm, 
And,  in  the  sacred  bond  that  links  our  fortunes, 
Makes  us  defy  its  thunders  ! — Thus,  in  one, — 
The  foreign  despot  threatens  us  in  vain. 
Guizot  and  Palmerston  may  fret  to  see  us 
Grasping  the  empires  which  they  vainly  covet, 
And  stretching  forth  our  trident  o'er  the  seas, 
In  rivalry  with  Britain.     They  may  chafe, 
But  cannot  chain  us.     Balances  of  power, 
Framed  by  corrupt  and  cunning  monarchists, 
Weigh  none  of  our  possessions ;  and  the  seasons 
That  mark  our  mighty  progress,  East  and  West, 
Show  Europe's  struggling  millions,  fondly  seeking, 
The  better  shores  and  shelters  that  are  ours. 
Enough,  sir — I  have  yielded  my  opinions, 
Freely  deliver'd,  frankly  argued,  fairly, 
With  deference  to  the  learning  and  the  wisdom, 


NORMAN     MAURICE.  113 

Shown  by  my  opponent !     The  rest  is  yours. 

CHAIRMAN.     You  have  heard,  citizens ;  what  farther  order 
Is  it  your  pleasure,  that  we — 

MERCER.  Sir,  it  needs  not ! — 

The  ample  range  that  this  debate  hath  taken, 
The  spacious  grasp  of  argument  upon  it — 
How  well  discuss'd  the  questions — how  complete 
And  clear,  the  several  reasons  which  concluded, — 
Leave  none  in  doubt  of  what  should  be  our  judgment. 
Methinks  there's  but  one  matter  now  before  us, 
And  this  decided,  stays  the  whole  discussion, — 
By  showing,  in  our  preference  for  the  man, 
What  still  hath  been  our  thoughts  upon  his  measures. 
Well  have  the  advocates  on  both  sides  spoken, 
Not  equally,  but  well !     For  Ferguson, 
His  eloquence  honors  his  experience  past, 
And  ancient  reputation ; — but,  methinks, 
That  none  who  listened  to  the  speech  of  Maurice, 
But  must  have  yielded  to  his  clear  opinions ; — 
Enforced  by  illustrations  near  and  foreign, 
Such  full  analysis,  such  profound  research — 
Statements  so  fairly  made, — objections  battled 
So  fearlessly — and  arguments  sustain'd 
With  so  much  equal  truth  and  eloquence ! 
His  views  are  mine — are  those  of  this  assembly  ! 
Nay  more — I  boldly  challenge  in  their  favor 
The  voices  of  Missouri !     What  remains — 
But  that  we  speak  to  her  assembled  wisdom  ? 
This  clay  they  choose  a  Senator  in  Congress — 
Whom  shall  we  name  to  them  of  all  our  people  ? 

IST  VOICE.     Why,  Norman  Maurice! 

2D  VOICE.     Who  but  Norman  Maurice  ? 

SD  VOICE.     The  widow's  friend — the  champion  of  the  people ! 


114:  NOKMAN    MAURICE. 

BROOKS.     Such  is  the  popular  will ! 

FERGUSON.  A  moment,  sir ! 

If  eloquence  and  talent,  just  opinion, 
Were  the  sole  requisite,  for  this  high  station, 
I  should  be  silent  here,  or  probably, 
Join  with  you  in  the  shout  for  Norman  Maurice. 
But  truth  and  virtue  claim  a  place  with  talent, 
And  he  who  serves,  our  Senator  in  Congress, 
Must  know  no  smutch  of  shame  upon  his  garments. 

MAURICE.     Ha  !  shame,  sir  ? 

FERGUSON.     That  was  the  word,  sir. 

MAURICE.     Shame  of  mine  ? 

FERGUSON.     Of  thine ! 

MAURICE.     Speak,  sir ;  I  listen. 

FERGUSON.  It  is  charged,  sir, 

That  Norman  Maurice,  ere  he  sought  St.  Louis, 
"Was  once  a  resident  of  Philadelphia  ; 
That  there  he  forged  a  paper  on  a  merchant, 
Well  known,  by  which  he  gain'd  two  thousand  dollars ! 

MAURICE.     A  falsehood  !  false  as  hell !     As  God's  in  heaven, 
I  never  did  this  thing ! 

FERGUSON.     The  proof  is  here  ! 

MAURICE.     The  proof !     What  proof  ? 

FERGUSON.  Know  you  one  Robert  Warren  ? 

Ha  !  you  are  silent,  sir — you  start,  you  redden ! — 

MAURICE.     With  scorn  and  indignation,  not  with  terror ! 
I  do  know  Robert  Warren ;  that  base  reptile 
Whom  thrice  I  spared  the  scourge.     Set  him  before  me, 
And  you  shall  see  whose  tremors  speak  the  guilty, 
And  whose  the  innocent,  aroused  to  vengeance  ! 

FERGUSON.     Have  then  your  wish !     Accuser !     Robert  Warren ! 
Stand  forth  and  answer !  [Pause. 

MAURICE.     He  dare  not ! 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  115 

FERGUSON.     He  will ! 

MAURICE.     Shout  for  your  man  again.     Set  him  before  mo. 
FERGUSON.     Call  at  the  door,  there — call  for  Robert  Warren. 
VOICE  WITHOUT.     Ho  !  Robert  Warren,  Robert  Warren !     Ho  ! 

Enter  Harry  Matthews  hastily,  and  in  great  agitation. 

MATTHEWS.     Who  calls  for  Robert  Warren  ?     He  is  murder'd, — 
Stabb'd  with  a  dagger,  and  was  found  a  corse, 
Within  the  wood  behind  the  house  of  Maurice. 
Here  is  the  dagger,  found  upon  the  body, 
And  crusted  with  his  blood.  [Shoiving  dagger. 

MAURICE.     Murder'd !     Give  it  me  !     [Seizes  the  dagger,  looks  at 

and  drops  it. 
Great  God !  'tis  hers !     [Aside.] 

MATTHEWS.     Behold  the  murderer ! 
He  staggers !     It  is  he  hath  done  the  deed ! 

FERGUSON.     Ay,  truly, — who  so  like  to  do  the  deed, 
As  one  who  needs  to  silence  such  a  witness. 

MAURICE.     Thy  bitter  jealousy  and  hate  delude  thee, 
And  make  thee  but  a  liar.     I  convict  thee, 
Out  of  the  mouths  of  thine  own  witnesses.— 
When  saw  you  Warren  last  1     [To  Matthews] 

MATTHEWS.  Noon  yesterday : 

He  left  me  then  to  seek  your  house. 

MAURICE.  My  house  ! 

What  would  he  at  my  house  ? 

MATTHEWS.  I  do  not  know. 

But  know  that  from  that  hour  until  the  present, 
When  now  we  find  him  by  your  house  a  corse, 
He  has  no  more  been  seen. 

MAURICE.  'Tis  fortunate, 

That  we  may  get  the  truth  from  fraud  and  cunning, 
Even  when  it  makes  against  them.     Noon  yesterday 


116  NORMAN    MAURICE. 

Found  me  in  public  court-house,  on  a  trial, 
Before  a  thousand  eyes,  till  four  o'clock ! 

FERGUSON.     But  after  that  ? 

MAURICE.     My  witness  here  is  Mercer. 

MERCER.  From  that  hour 

Till  sunset,  he  continued  at  my  house, 
Then  left  with  Captain  Catesby,  to  return 
With  dark,  and  to  remain  with  us  all  night, 
Most  part  in  consultation  with  our  friends, 
Who  did  not  separate  until  near  the  dawn. 

FERGUSON.     Then,  till  this  hour  ? 

CATESBY.     With  me  !     We  slept  together  ! 

MAURICE.     Man  of  a  bitter  malice,  art  thou  answer'd  ? 

FERGUSON.     Thou  'scapest  the  murder,  not  the  forgery. 
Wan-en  was  not  the  only  evidence ; 
Where's  Richard  Osborne  ? 

OSBORNE,  [coming  forward]     Here  ! 

FERGUSON.     All  do  not  fail  us  ! 

Your  name  is  Richard  Osborne  !     You  know  Maurice, 
And  know  the  crime  which  Warren  charged  upon  him  ? 
He  named  you  as  his  witness. 

OSBORNE.  He  did  wrong,  then  ! 

I  know  of  no  offence  of  Norman  Maurice — 
Yet  know  him  well,  and  all  I  know  of  him, 
Hath  still  approved  him,  to  my  sense  and  judgment, 
The  noblest,  as  he  is  the  first  of  men  ! 

1.  PEOPLE  SHOUT.     Hurrah  for  that ! 

2.  PEOPLE  SHOUT.     Hurrah  for  Norman  Maurice  ! 
FERGUSON.     Confusion ! 

MATTHEWS.     I'm  off.  [Exeunt  Matthews  and  Fera- 

PEOPLE,  [with  cries  and  hisses .]     Away  with  Ferguso^ 
MERCER,  [to  Maurice.]     Your  triumph  is  complete  ! 
BROOKS.     All's  well ! 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  117 

MAURICE.     Tell  me  that ! — 

All's  well ! — You  spoke  !     Did  you  not  say,  my  wife  2 
What  of  her — speak  ! 

MERCER.     You're  ill !     Your  lips  are  very  pale  ! 
But  courage,  all  your  trial's  over  now. 

MAURICE.     Art  sure  of  that  ?     Let  me  but  understand  it ! — 

MERCER.     'Twould  seem  so ! — What  a  foul  conspiracy, 
So  fatally  arrested.     For  this  murder — 

MAURICE.     What  of  it  2 

MERCER.     'Tis  very  strange  ! 

MAURICE.     Very  strange  indeed  ! 

MERCER.     But  stranger  still  the  audacious  charge  against  you. 
Who  was  this  Warren  2 

MAURICE,  [with  an  effort^     Who  ?  but  here  is  one, 
To  put  you  in  possession  of  the  story. 
He  knows  how  dexterously  a  lie  was  founded, 
Most  monstrous,  on  the  basis  of  a  truth, 

By  this  same  Warren,  to  my  injury.         [Osborne  comes  forward. 
Osborne,  I  thank  you  for  your  ready  answer, 
And  good  opinion. 

OSBORNE.     It  was  but  your  right. 

MAURICE.     What  is  that  cry  ?  my  fears—         [Noise  without. 

Enter  Kate,  followed  by  Mrs.  Jervas. 

KATE.     Oh  !  Sir  !     Your  wife  ! 

MAURICE.     My  wife !     Be  still  my  heart.     What  of  my  wife  3 

KATE.     She's  sick  !     Oh  !  very  sick  ! 

MRS.  JERVAS.     She's  broke     blood-vessel ! 

MAURICE,  [with  a  cry.]     God  !  i.}  ou  hast  sent 
This  Terror,  like  a  fate  into  my  house, 
And  wreck'd  the  hope  that  nestled  there  in  peace  I—- 
Hence, woman,  from  my  sight ! 
My  wife!     My  wife  1  [Rushes  out. 


118  NORMAN    MAUKICE. 

MERCER,  [to  CatesbyJ]     Follow  him  with  a  surgeon. 

BROOKS.     What  a  day's  history  of  storm  and  sorrow  ! 
There  is  some  cruel  mystery  in  these  doings, 
Which  we  must  fathom  !     This  conspiracy, 
For  such  it  clearly  shows,  makes  for  our  party ; 
Let's  hasten  to  the  use  of  it.     They'll  never 
Hold  up  their  heads  again.     The  people's  with  us, 
The  assembly  waits  us  and  will  crown  our  triumph  ! 


SCENE    VII. 

A  chamber  in  the  house  of  Norman  Maurice.  Clarice  reclines  upon 
a  couch.  The  widow  Pressley  stands  at  a  little  distance  watching 
her. 

WIDOW.     Dear  lady,  you  will  die. 

CLARICE.     Do  not  come  near  me  ! 

WIDOW.     You  bleed  !     You  suffocate  ! 

CLARICE.     And  still  he  comes  not. 
You  promised  me  to  send  for  him.     Oh,  God — 
Should  they  behold  these  papers.     Ha  !  I  hear  him. 
Do  you  hear  nothing  ? 

WIDOW.     Nothing ! 

CLARICE.     I  hear  !     'Tis  he  ! 

MAURICE,  [without.]     Clarice  !  my 


Enter  N"r<-:nan  Maurice. 

MAURICE.     Speak  !     Tell  me  !    Where  ! — Clarice.     [Seeing  her. 
CLARICE.     Oh !    now  you  come !     Heaven  bless  !     I'm  dying, 
Norman ! 

[Raises  herself  feebly  to  his  arms. 


NORMAN    MAURICE.  119 

MAURICE.     Dying ! 

CLARICE.     I  feel  it ;  but 

MAURICE.     The  surgeon  !     God  of  heaven  ! — 

CLARICE.     He  cannot  help  me  now.     Too  late  !  no  succor, — 
I've  but  the  words  for  blessing  and  farewell ! — 
I'm  sinking ; — but  you're  safe  !     Safe  !     Oh  !  the  rapture, 
To  know  it,  and  to  whisper  in  your  ears, 
With  the  last  loving  words.     He  would  have  crush'd  you — 
Made  infamous  your  name,  my  noble  husband ; 
But  stoop, — your  ear — he'll  trouble  us  no  more. 
He's  silent — and  I  have  the  fatal  papers  ; — 
No  copies — all  the  originals. — Ha  !     Ha  ! — 
They're  here — now  take  me, — closer — to  your  heart ; 
I  leave  you — lose  you — Norman.     Ah  !  your  lips, — 
How  cold,  but  sweet,  my  Norman — cold — sweet — Norman !    [Dies. 

MAURICE.     Now  sink  my  soul ! — since  the  bright  star  is  gone, 
That  made  thy  life  and  glory  from  the  heavens — 
That  stored  thee  with  all  blessings.     1  am  crush'd  ! 
Ha  !  what  are  these  !  (lays  her  down  gently — the  papers  fall  from 
Oh,  God  !  I  see  it  all.  her  bosom. 

Oh,  bloody  wretch,  whose  nature  was  a  lie, 
This  was  thy  work, — not  hers.     'Tis  plain  before  me. 
My  poor  Clarice  !  how  faithful  unto  death, 
Shielding  me  at  the  peril  of  thyself, 
And,  in  the  seeming  dread  necessity, 
Doing  the^  deed  that  from  its  delicate  props, 
Shook  the  fair  fabric  of  thy  innocent  life  ! 

My  wife  !     My  wife  !  [Sinks  down. 

[Noise  and  voices  without.'] 

PEOPLE.     Hurrah  for  Norman  Maurice  ! 

Enter  Mercer,  Brooks,  and  others. 
MERCER.    Maurice,  my  friend,  we  triumph.     You  are  Senator 


120  NORMAN    MAURICE. 

For  the  next  term,  in  Congress,  from  Missouri. 

MAURICE.     Couldst  wake  her  with  thy  tidings  ! 

MERCER.     God  !     This  is  death  ! 

MAURICE.     It  lies  upon  her  silent  lips  like  snow. 
Oh  !  do  not  speak — she  hears  not !  why  should  I  ? 
Nor  sorrow,  nor  joy  shall  fill  these  frozen  eyes, 
That  see  not  me.     She  would  have  listen'd  once, 
How  gladly, — and  found  music  in  the  triumph, 
rhit  AQW  can  bring  me  none.     My  wife  !     My  wife  ! 


THE      END. 


ATALANTIS; 

A    STORY    OF    THE    SE'A 


"  Tis  not  vain  or  fabulous, — 
Though  so  esteem'd  by  shallow  ignorance, — 
What  the  sage  Poets,  taught  by  th'  heavenly  Muse, 
Storied  of  old  in  high  immortal  verse, 
Of  dire  chimeras  and  enchanted  isles, 
And  rifted  rocks." — MILTOX. 

THE  first  edition  of  "  Atalantis"  was  published  in  1832.  It  has  been  sub- 
sequently revised,  and,  I  trust,  amended.  I  am  not  satisfied  that  the  dra- 
matic form  was  appropriately  adopted,  since  it  leads  to  expectations  which 
the  character  of  the  poem  will  scarcely  satisfy.  The  advantage  of  the  dia- 
logue consists  simply  in  permitting  that  diversification  of  the  descriptive 
portions,  which,  in  a  work  so  purely  fanciful,  would  seem  necessary  to  pre- 
vent monotony. — This  poem,  with  those  pieces  which  follow  it,  belongs  to  a 
class,  the  standards  of  which  are  almost  entirely  imaginative.  The  reader 
who  looks  here  for  the  merely  human  sentiment,  will  find  himself  at  fault. 
The  province  of  poetry  is  too  various  for  the  application  of  laws  derived 
wholly  from  individual  tastes  •,  and  he  who  opens  the  pages  of  an  author 
must  always  be  prepared  to  ascend  that  mount  of  vision  from  which  he  has 
made  his  survey.  The  highest  regions  of  the  ideal,  are  unquestionably  such 
as  belong  to  the  spiritual  nature.  To  this  nature,  exclusively,  verse  which 
is  solely  imaginative  must  commend  itself.  It  is  not  the  less  human,  though 
it  may  be  more  remote  and  foreign,  than  that  which  simply  appeals  to  mortal 
passions,  and  the  more  earthly  purposes  of  man  and  life, 
VOL.  i.  6 


PEKSONS  OF  THE  POEM, 


ONESMARCITUS,  a  King  of  Sea-Demons. 
COUNT  LEON,  a  noble  Spanish  Knight. 
MENDEZ  CELER,  Captain  of  the  Arragon. 
OGRE,  a  slave  of  Onesimarchus. 

Mariners,  Demons,  &c.,  &c. 

ATALANTIS,  a  Princess  of  the  Nereids. 

NBA,  her  attendant. 

LADY  ISABEL,  sister  to  Count  Leon. 

ZEPHYR-SPIRIT. 
TJNINA, 


N  ANITA, 
LOLINE,  „ 


ATALANTIS 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 
An  Islet  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean. 

ATALANTIS  AND  ONESIMARCHUS. 

ATAL.     Get  thee  hence,  monster,  I  defy  thee  now, 
As  late  I  scorn'd  thee.     Thy  base  threats  are  vain, 
And  thy  lures  idle.     All  in  vain  thy  prayer, — 
And,  in  thy  promise,  do  I  nothing  see 
To  move  my  spirit ; — nothing  to  misguide 
My  firm  persuasion,  that  so  foul  a  thing 
Should  have  no  thought  of  mine. 

ONESI.  I  prithee,  hold ! 

Be  charier  of  thy  feelings  ; — have  a  care, 
If  thou  dost  love  thyself  and  wouldst  be  free  ! 
Beseems  thee  not  this  proud  authority, 
In  such  condition  as  I  hold  thee  now. 
Look  round  thee,  lovely  Atalant ! — Survey 
My  wondrous  power,  and  heed  the  prison  house. 
Most  fit  for  thee  to  flutter  in, — not  fly ! 
Thou  art  my  captive,  maiden,  bound  by  spells, 
Potent  as  night,  that,  struggle  as  thou  mayst, 
Mock  thy  best  effort,  and  defy  thy  hopes. 

ATAL.     Foul  tyrant,  I  despise  thee  and  thy  power, 
And  laugh  at  all  thy  threats.     I  know  thee  well, 


124:  ATALANTIS. 

Thy  strength,  thy  spells,  thy  hatefulness,  and  all 
That  makes  thee  what  thou  art ! — 

ONESI.  Dost  know  thyself  1 

ATAL.     Ay,  my  own  weakness,  now, — yet  nothing  fear 
Thy  greater  strength  in  this  my  overthrow. 

ONESI.  Thou  fear'dst  not  this  ? 

ATAL.     I  did  not ;  yet  I  knew, 
Even  ere  the  moment  of  captivity, 
That  thou  hadst  power  for  this.     'Twas  in  my  scorn, — 
In  the  full  feeling  of  my  pride  and  strength, 
Mocking  thy  gross  dominion, — that  I  grew 
Improvident  of  caution. 

ONESI.  Yet,  beware ! 

Lest  a  new  lesson  counsel  thee  to  fears 
Thy  scorn  believes  not  now. 

ATAL.  Oh  !  get  thee  hence  ! 

Think'st  thou  I  am  so  shallow,  not  to  know 
Thy  close  impassable  limit  ?     Am  I  not, 
Thrice  guarded  in  myself,  with  power  mine  own, 
Match'd  unto  thine,  and  know  I  not  that  thou — 
Howe'er  in  captive  bound  thou  keep'st  me  now, 
Having  robb'd  me  of  the  wand  that  serves  my  will, 
By  a  foul  trickery  worthy  of  thyself, — 
Hast  not  the  might — unless  I  do  forget 
My  better  nature  and  give  way  to  thine — 
A  wretched  madness,  most  impossible  ! — 
To  graze  with  licensed  breath  the  idlest  hair, 
That  wantons  from  my  shoulder.     Get  thee  hence, — 
I  dread  thee  not,  thou  monstrous  impotence  ! 

ONESI.     Hold  !  or  thou  wilt  impel  me  unto  wrath, 
When  I  would  love  thee  ! 

ATAL.  Do  I  fear  thy  wrath  ? 

And  prat'st  thou  of  thy  love,  thou  crooked  game-make, 
Thou  gross  deformity  ! — how  I  could  laugh 


ATALANTIS.  125 

At  thy  rough  gambols  in  an  element 
Made  for  pure  spirits,  and  the  delicate  grace 
Of  the  angelic  youth  and  morning  beauty, — 
But  that  a  prison  laugh  is  seemly  sad, 
And  turns  into  a  sorrow. 

ONESI.  So  shall  thine, 

If  thou  bethink  not  oft'ner  of  thy  bound ! 
Thou  art  a  sprightly  and  most  pleasant  child, 
But  all  unlearn'd  by  crude  adversity, 
Else  wouldst  thou  teach  thyself  another  mood, 
And  reason  in  the  guise  of  circumstance. 
Wert  thou  array'd  in  panoply  of  war, 
With  all  thy  armies  on  the  equal  field, 
Naught  wanting  to  thy  might,  the  spoken  taunt 
Were  not  unseemly ; — now,  it  hath  an  air 
That  ill  becomes  thy  lip  and  present  state. 

ATAL.     And  wouldst  thou  teach,  oh !  rare  philosopher, 
The  prudence  of  compliance  with  the  law, 
Of  that  worst  fate,  a  base  necessity  ? 
Why,  thou'dst  disfigure  truth,  and  all  distort 
The  fairer  argument  into  the  foul, 
Make  right  a  truckler  to  expediency 
And  conjure  virtue  with  the  spells  of  fear, 
Till  she  grows  common,  a  base  thing  of  time, 
Having  but  present  office.     Thou  hast  err'd, — 
For,  but  suppose  me  ignorant  of  good, 
Untutor'd  in  truth's  excellence,  and  all 
That  virtue  wills  to  beauty, — thee  I  know, 
And  know  to  hate  the  lesson  thou  wouldst  teach. 

ONESI.     Thou'rt  rash,  fair  damsel,  rash  and  ill  advised  ! 
Beware  of  what  thou  say'st — to  prudence  hold ; 
Remember,  when  thy  spirit  would  offend, 
Thou  art  the  captive  to  my  greater  power. 

ATAL.     Thy  greater  cunning — thy  dishonest  guile  ! 


126  ATALANTIS. 

ONESI.     And  that  is  greater  power,  thou  simple  child  ; — 
And,  as  thou  art  a  captive,  let  thy  speech 
Mate  with  thy  fortunes.     I  deny  thee  now 
A  farther  range  than  suits  my  jealous  mood  ; 
And  I  shall  guard  thee  well,  and  watch  thy  steps, 
And  check  thee  when  thou  trippest.     On  thy  paths, 
My  slaves,  that  never  close  the  eye,  attend, 
And,  though  thou  seest  them  not 

ATAL.  I  see  them  not ! — 

Thou  dost  forget  my  nature  and  my  power  ; — 
Let  me  but  wave  my  hand  thus,  with  a  will ! — 
What  call  you  this  blear  imp  ? 

[She  waves  her  hand,  and  Ogre  becomes  visible. 

ONESI.  Ha  !  thou  base  whelp  ? 

Did  I  not  warn  thee  ? — wherefore  didst  thou  lurk, 
Thus  nigh,  to  feel  her  spells  ? — but  thou  shalt  learn. 
Shall  I  not  have  obedience  where  I  rule  ? 
Ho  !  Runa  !  Merla  !  take  this  sodden  slave 
And  bind  him  to  his  pits  against  the  rock, 
Till  midnight — let  the  scourge  be  well  applied, 
While  his  shrieks  wake  the  drowsy  mariner, 
Filling  his  head  with  storms,  for  which  they  make 
Fit  music,  and  foretell ! 

OGRE.  Master,  oh,  spare  I 

The  day  grows  dark,  and  the  night  rushes  on, 
Long  ere  the  accustomed  hour.     The  cruel  scourge 
Will  torture,  and  the  wrath  upon  the  wave, 
Will  dash  me  into  madness  'gainst  the  rocks. 

ONESI.  Take  him  hence  !  away  ! 

OGRE.     Spare  me, — 'twas  my  zeal 
To  serve  thee,  that  o'erstepp'd.     But  pardon  now, 
I  err  not  thus  again.     Be  pitiful ! 
Merla  doth  own  for  me  a  silent  grudge, 
And  will  outstretch  thy  order.     He  will  bind 


ATALANTIS.  127 

Both  hands  and  feet,  and,  with  a  double  thong, 
Will  tear  my  flesh,  then  mock  me  with  keen  gibes, 
Until  I  faint,  while  the  cold  cavern  waves 
Do  creep  about  and  wrap  me ! 

ONESI.  Not  in  vain  : 

Though  he  doth  punish  thee  as  thou  hast  said, 
Thou  shalt  not  perish.     Hence  with  him.     Ye  stand 
As  if  ye  did  delight  in  his  discourse, 
Insolent  with  himself. 

ATAL.  Oh  !  thou  art  stern — 

A  tyrant  'gainst  all  nature,  that  will  spurn 
The  kneeling  wretch,  but  for  excess  of  zeal 
Doing  thy  bidding  truly. 

ONESI.  'Tis  for  thee 

I  punish  him,  fair  Atalant. 

ATAL.  For  me ! 

ONESI.     Hath  he  not  hung  too  closely  on  thy  steps, 
Intrusive,  watching  thee  most  narrowly 
Beyond  my  will  ?     Shalt  thou  not  be  secure 
From  what  offends  thee  ? 

ATAL.     'Tis  thou  offend'st  me  ! 
Make  me  secure  from  thee,  and  'gainst  thy  slave 
I  shall  have  instant  remedy. 

ONESI.  Still  thus ! 

ATAL.     Ay,  ever  ! — while  the  light  lasts  of  my  life, 
Thought,  feeling,  best  affection.     'Tis  for  me 
That  thou  wouldst  punish  him  ? — then  set  him  free  ; — 
The  wrong  that  he  has  done  is  done  to  me, 
And  I  forgive  it  him. 

ONESI.  It  fits  thee  well, 

This  ready  spirit  of  mercy  which  conceives, 
And  grants  the  boon  ere  spoken.     Not  so  me, 
'Twere  a  poor  state,  and  brief  the  power,  if  thus, 
O'er-zealous  though  it  be,  each  slave  should  leap, 


128  ATALANTIS. 

His  bound  unehasten'd.     Hence  with  him,  away  I 

The  scourge  shall  lessen  his  o'er-ready  zeal, 

And  midnight  seas,  and  colds,  and  biting  airs 

Shall  teach  him  penitence.  [Ogre  is  led  of, 

ATAL.  Thou  cruel  king  ! 

Hadst  thou  by  other  qualities  of  grace 
Master'd  the  heart  that  feels  for  thee  but  scorn, 
This  merciless  act  of  thine  had  set  it  free  ; 
Had  robb'd  it  of  persuasion  of  thy  worth 
In  every  office  ;  and,  from  virtuous  meed, 
Had  pluck'd  all  fair  deserving,  that  had  else 
Been  yielded  by  just  tribute. 

ONESI..  Thou  wrongest  mo  ; — 

And  chid'st  too  harshly  the  o'ercoming  sway, 
Which  keeps  dominion  safe,  and  makes  it  strongs 
Wouldst  thou  not  master  ?     Is  the  woman  heart 
Unfriendly  to  the  pleasant  tastes  of  power  ? 
I  know  thee  better, — better  know  thy  sex — 
Esteem  thee  as  the  rest, — born  with  the  love 
Of  measureless  rule, — the  will  to  reach  afar, 
Plucking  down  station,  putting  strength  aside,. 
Till,  in  the  midst,  alone,  o'er  all  thou  stand'st, 
All  fearing,  all  adoring  f 

ATAL.  How  thou  soarrst ! 

And  this  thy  aim,  how  fruitlessly  thy  rule 
Is  wasted  on  the  wretched  slave  that  cowers^ 
Hopeless  and  still  submissive,  to  his  lord. 
Onesimarchus,  I  despise  thee  more, 
That  I  have  seen  thee  in  the  wid'st  extent 
Of  thy  dominion. 

ONESI.     'Tis  well !     But  thou  shalt  feel, — 
So  shalt  thou  better  know, — how  great  the  power 
Thou  mock'st  at,  in  thy  ignorance  and  pride  I 
And  though,  unless  by  wanton  will  of  thine> 


ATALANTIS.  129 

I  may  not  gain  possession  of  thy  form, 
Yet  shall  I  so  constrain  thee  by  my  arts, 
So  work  upon  thy  weakness — so  forbid 
All  bent  of  inclination, — all  desire, — 
Curtailing  every  thought  that  does  not  tend 
To  the  fierce  satisfaction  of  my  want, — 
That  thou  shalt  yield  thyself  in  very  dread, 
Though  thy  heart  loathe  me  in  its  secret  mood, 
And  every  sense  grow  outraged  at  the  fate 
To  which  thou  still  submit'st. 

ATAL.  Oh  !  shallow  slave  ! 

This  is  thy  precious  scheme  !     And  there  thou  stand'st, 
With  thy  red  gloating  eye  stretch'd  'yond  its  sphere, 
Glaring  with  foul  and  fiend  imaginings — 
Thy  lip,  that  quivers  with  voluptuous  rage, 
Thicken'd  with  vicious  fury, — thy  scant  brows, 
Retreating  wide  and  back,  with  wool  o'erhung, 
That  links  thee  with  the  sooty  African 


Who  wallows  in  thy  worship  ; — there  thou  stand'st, 
Blinded  with  beastly  hope,  that  thou  canst  will 
A  spirit  so  pure  as  mine  to  leave  its  sphere, 
And  come,  untended  and  unlighted,  down, 
From  its  bright  mansions,  to  thy  pool  and  cave  ! 
Till  now,  my  thought  had  been  that,  with  thy  power, 
There  was  a  sense  to  give  it  dignity, 
And  marshal  thy  gross  attributes  with  state 
Into  considerate  order.     But  not  now, — 
When  I  look  on  thee,  so  incapable, — 
J3o  wanting  in  that  art,  which,  when  it  lacks, 
Strength  is  a  toiling  giant  up  the  hills 
That  never  wins  the  summit — all  my  hate 
Subsides  into  a  feeling  less  than  scorn, 
Which  cannot  yet  be  pity.     Prithee,  go, — 
Thou  dost  but  move  me  to  unseemly  mirth, 

6* 


130  ATALANTIS. 

Which  yet  I  would  not. 

ONESI.     Nay  !  give  it  vent  and  words  ! 
Thy  wit  is  lively ;  thou  hast  eloquence  ; 
I  feel  that  thou  might'st  chafe  me,  were  it  not 
That  there  will  be  a  season  too  for  me, 
When  I  may  answer  thee. 

ATAL.  What  canst  thou  more  ? 

Thou  hast  done  all  in  stealing  me  away 
From  mine  own  kingdom  with  thy  felon  arts  : 
And  this  shall  find  its  punishment  ere  long, 
For,  even  now,  in  Mergevan,  my  town, 
I  do,  by  precious  instincts,  see  the  array 
Of  thousands,  whom  my  brothers,  to  the  war, 
Will  haste  with  meet  decision.     Thou,  rnethinks, 
Hast  proved  their  arms  before  ; — a  little  while, 
The  proofs  shall  be  renew'd, — and  what  shall  then 
Be  thy  fond  refuge,  when  their  mighty  powers 
Descend  on  thee  to  battle  ? 

ONESI.  Let  them  come  ! 

I  shall  be  ready  then — am  ready  now  ! 
Thou  speak'st  with  a  rare  confidence,  but  know, 
I  took  thee  not,  thus  boldly,  from  thy  realms, 
Till  I  had  meetly,  with  commission'cl  force, 
Prepared  for  all  thy  battles.     Thou  forget'st 
The  strength  I  bring — the  powers  that,  in  a  trice, 
From  farthest  ocean  I  can  call  at  once, 
Where  the  deep  thickens  to  a  bed  of  reeds  ; 
And  from  the  kings  that  o'er  the  whirlpools  sway, 
Gather'd  to  my  allegiance,  by  a  blast 
Upon  the  shell  I  bear  within  my  hand. 
Thou  seem'st  to  have  forgotten  too,  methinks, 
That,  by  my  single  arm,  thy  mother's  first, 
And  thy  own  brother,  fiercest  of  them  all, 
Fell,  like  an  infant,  impotent,  o'erthrown  ! 


AT  AL  ANTIS. 

What  though  I  lost  the  conflict,  did  ye  gain  ? 

Was  not  your  city  of  the  rocks  destroy'd 

By  the  wild  waves,  which,  in  my  wanton  mood, 

O'erwent  and  left  them  prostrate  ; — while  thyself, 

An  infant  then,  rock'd  in  a  purple  shell, 

'Twixt  two  obedient  billows,  scarce  preserved, 

Wast  borne  away,  affrighted,  in  the  arms 

Of  thy  most  humble  follower.     This,  methinks, 

Thy  memory  lacks,  and  I  repeat  it  thee, 

Not  for  the  glory  of  mine  own  exploit, 

But  to  remind  me  of  the  groundless  hope 

On  which  thou  build'st  for  safety. 

ATAL.  It  is  well ! 

Thou  hast  chosen  for  thy  wooing  a  fit  style, 
And  most  judicious,  when  that  thou  relat'st 
Thy  bloody  traffic  with  thyself  and  mine, 

ONESI.     Thyself  hast  moved  me  to  't. 

ATAL.  I  blame  thee  not, 

Rude  monster,  for  the  evil  thou  hast  done, 
And  sought  beyond  thy  utmost  power  to  do  ! 
'Tis  in  thy  nature.     There  is  on  thy  front 
The  character  of  the  beast.     Thy  savage  eye, 
Fix'd  in  thy  bloated  and  unmeasured  face, 
From  which  it  glares  like  some  red,  baleful  star, 
Upon  a  dismal,  dusk,  unspeaking  blank, — 
Hath  mark'd  thee  strongly.     Labor  as  thou  mayst — 
Speak,  like  thy  shell,  in  music — let  thy  words 
Be  like  the  honey  dews,  that,  on  the  rocks, 
Nursed  in  the  hollows,  nightly  fall  from  heaven, 
A  solace  for  the  storm-bird  and  the  gull, — 
Yet  art  thou  fatal  to  the  spells  thou  hast, 
And  bafflest  thine  own  art.     Thou  canst  not  change  ; 
The  beast  is  high  o'er  all,  a  monstrous  mock, 
In  contradiction  of  itself  and  strength — 


132  ATA  L  AX  T  IS, 

So  that  the  very  sweets  that  thou  mayst  own 
Grow  poisonous  in  thy  use. 

ONESI.  Oh,  thou  dost  wellr 

And  wisely,  urging  me  to  anger  thus, 
Till  thou  dost  dissipate  that  kindly  sense, 
At  variance  with  my  spirit,  which  my  love, 
Bids  live  in  thy  behalf.     Dost  thou  not  fear, 
That,  vex'd  by  thy  sharp  mock  and  wanton  speeefay 
My  love  shall  grow  to  hatred  ? 

ATAL.  Be  it  so  I 

I  heed  thee  not — thy  anger  scorn,  not  fear ; — 
Thou  art  of  those,  being  the  foe  to  truth, 
That  are,  when  friendliest,  most  inimical, — 
And  dost  most  harm  in  doing  seeming  good, 
And  art  most  hateful,  most  injurious, 
When  most  professing  love  I     I  fear  thee  not, — 
Though  by  an  active  cunning — and  yet  less, 
By  active  cunning  than  mine  own  neglect, — 
Gaining  the  advance  upon  us,  thou  hast  made 
A  prisoner  and  dire  enemy  of  one, 
"Who,  in  another  chance,  and  other  time, 
Had  never  made  so  little  of  her  thought, 
To  waste  it  on  thee. 

ONESI.  Wilt  thou  nothing,  then, 

To  gain  thy  freedom  ?     Thou  wilt  surely  smile, 
Look  pleased  in  some  small  sort,  and  speak  him  well, 
Whose  power  alone  can  free  thee. 

ATAL.  Trust  not  that ! 

I  shall  be  free  by  other  means,  and  soon  ! 
I  barter  not  my  grace  for  mine  own  right ; — 
Lest  that  the  gift,  misused,  grow  valueless  ! — 
Thou  hast  no  boon  in  all  thy  store  and  might 
Which  I  can  give  thee  thanks  for.     In  myself 
The  means  of  freedom  rest. 


ATALANTIS.  133 

ONESI.  [aside.]         Ha  !  in  herself ! 
I  snatch'd  from  her  the  powerful  wand  which  made 
The  elements  do  her  bidding.     What  remains  ? 

ATAL.     A  power,  which  as  it  teaches  me  to  know 
The  secret  thought  thou  speak'st  not,  cannot  be 
Wrench'd  from  my  firm  possession. 

ONESI.    <•      *  "We  shall  see ! 

Thy  instincts  may  declare  my  thought,  but  cannot 
Avail  to  give  thee  freedom.     All  in  vain 
Thy  hope,  whether  within  thyself  it  be, 
Or  in  the  armies  which  thy  brothers  raise — 
Here,  powerless  in  the  conflict,  useless  all ; — 
For,  in  the  air,  I've  thrown  a  circling  spell, 
Borrow'd  from  night  and  silence, — which,  being  gross, 
Far  grosser  than  the  elements  which  make 
Your  finer  tempers,  ye  may  not  withstand  ! 
This  will  resist  them  !     Into  this,  who  comes, 
Not  fitted  like  ourselves  to  meet  its  power, 
Blinded  and  shorn  of  strength,  falls  feebly  down, 
And  straight  is  thrall'd  forever.     All  around 
Our  island  limit,  where  the  ocean  breaks, 
This  element  is  scattered  ; — like  a  wall, 
Shutting  out  all  invasion, — closing  all, 
Within,  from  commerce  with  the  realm  without ! 
Thus  art  thou  girdled  now.     Denied  thy  wand — 
Which,  in  yon  rock,  within  a  mystic  frame, 
Moulded  by  midnight  spells,  in  halls  where  rule 
Thousands  of  spirits  dethroned,  I  have  encased 
And  seal'd  with  magic,  and  the  mighty  word 
Given  me  at  creation  as  a  spell, 
That  consummates  my  will ; — thou  canst  not  break 
The  narrow  circle  of  thy  prison  bound, 
And  taste  the  finer  element,  whose  breath 
Might  bring  thee  to  thy  power. 


134  ATALANTIS. 

ATAL.  Thy  prudence  well 

Hath  counselled  thee  of  dangers  thou  must  dread — 
Dangers  best  studied  in  thy  strong  defence 
And  wily  combinations.     But  thy  art 
Is  shallow  like  thy  power.     A  little  while, 
Watch  as  thou  mayst,  the  wand  is  mine  again, 
And  whatsoe'er  its  faculty,  be  sure  * 

It  shall  be  raised  against  thee.     Thou  shalt  be 
O'erthrown  when  most  secure  ;  and,  like  the  bird, 
Slain  by  its  stronger  fellow,  as  thou  saw'st 
Upon  the  morn  I  fell  thy  prisoner, 
Even  from  thy  topmost  pinnacle  struck  down, 
Thy  fall  shall  mate  thy  arrogance  of  flight, 
Beneath  the  lowest,  low.     How  should  my  soul, 
Strong  among  giant  spirits,  hark  or  heed 
Thy  profferings  or  thy  threats  ?     What  canst  thou  do 
To  bend  my  purer  nature  unto  thine, 
In  base  extremity,  unless  I  yield, 
Wanton,  and  shorn  of  the  true  woman  strength, — 
Which  finds  best  nutriment  in  innocence, 
A.nd  lives  mature  in  its  own  delicate  essence, 
A  power  in  due  degree  with  chastity, — 
To  meet  thy  brutal  want  and  foul  desire, 
Thou  that  art  foulest !     Thou  hast  'vantage  won, 
And  when  I  slept  thou  waked'st ;  and  I  now, 
For  a  brief  season,  suffer  that  I  slept, — 
That  the  condition  of  all  negligence, — 
When,  with  a  subtle  and  dishonest  foe, 
Such  as  thou  art,  in  certain  neighborhood, 
We  should  have  watch'd  with  armament  prepared, 
And  every  weapon  bright,  and  high  rock  lit, 
Kindled  with  sea-spar  into  ruddiness  ! 
So  hadst  thou  shrunk  away,  scared  by  the  blaze, 
Cowering,  with  backward  terror,  till  the  sun, 


ATALANTIS.  135 


Thy  nature's  dread,  thy  great  antipathy, 
Leaping  from  off  his  billowy  bed  at  morn, 
No  cloud  about  his  brow,  and  strong  from  sleep, 
Drives  thee,  with  glittering  shafts  that  never  fail, 
Blinded  and  bellowing  to  thy  marshy  gulfs. 

ONESI.     Dost  thou  exult,  and  is  my  fate  so  sure,- 
And  shalt  thou  have  thy  liberty  so  soon, 
As  thou  dost  fancy  ?     Then,  a  gentler  speech 
Had  better  graced  thy  lips  as  conqueror, 
Over  the  feeble  foe  thou  canst  not  fear. 
But  let  me  win  thee  to  some  fair  constraint 
Of  seeming  amnesty.     A  truce  awhile, 
To  this  so  keen  and  profitless  retort, 
Which  keeps  us  thus  asunder.     Let  us  each 
Heed  reason  from  the  other.     Thou  hast  said, 
With  hope  'yond  expectation,  that  thou  look'st 
For  soon  and  certain  help.     I  see  not  this 
Present  or  in  far  prospect ;  nor  beyond, 
In  the  imperfect  future,  can  I  frame 
The  aid  thou  look'st  for  from  thy  tribute  realms. 
These  things  affright  me  not  as  once  before, — 
My  kingdom  as  it  is,  all  well  prepared 
To  keep  its  own,  and  conquer,  right  or  wrong. 
Its  barriers  shut  out  hope  from  thee,  unless 
Thou  swerv'st  my  settled  feeling,  which  thou  mayst 
By  seasonable  yielding — so  shall  both 
Our  anxious  purpose  win  ; — thy  freedom  thou, 
And  I,  the  sweet  accomplishment  of  that 
Which  flames  desire  within  me  !     Well  I  Ijpow 
My  power  can  go  no  farther  than  thou  will'st, 
In  this  so  dear  condition, — but  thou  art, 
My  prisoner  still — and  that  may  move  thy  wish, 
Not  capable  of  liberty  unless 
My  will  shall  break  thy  fetters.     Hear  me  then, 


136  ATALANTIS. 

Since  this  our  opposition. 

ATAL.  Speak  !     I  hear  ! 

ONESI.     Become  my  bride, — nay,  patiently  ! — smile  not — 
My  queen,  if  better  lists  thee.     On  my  throne, — 
Thou  hast  beheld  its  state, — of  emeralds  made, 
Each  one  a  crowning  and  a  marvellous  gem, 
Set  round  the  spacious  bosom  of  a  shell 
Torn  from  a  fierce  sea-monster — one  who  bore 
The  miracled  wonder  on  his  glittering  back, 
And  battled  for  it  as  became  its  worth, 
Nor  lost  it  ere  his  life  ; — thy  hand  shall  wield, — 
Fit  hand  for  such  a  rule  ! — a  sceptred  wand, 
Pluck' d  from  an  ocean  cave  of  farthest  Ind, 
By  ancient  giants  held, — a  pillar'd  spire, 
Of  holiest  sapphire,  which  at  evening  burns 
Deeper  than  ever  sunlight,  and  around 
Lights  up  the  sable  waters  many  a  league, 
From  sea  to  shore,  till  the  scared  'habitants 
Fly  to  their  cover  in  the  wood,  nor  dream 
How  sportive  is  the  sway  of  that  Sea-Queen, 
Who  rides  the  waves  and  makes  them  smile  by  night. 

ATAL.     Oh  !  wonderful !  most  wonderful ! 

ONESI.  Dost  scorn  ? — 

But  let  me  not  be  anger'd.     Hear  me  still. — 
These  are  but  shown  thee  to  declare  the  fruit, 
The  effect,  perchance,  but  not  the  source  of  might, 
So  fertile  as  is  mine.     But  thou  shalt  know, 
That,  of  the  full  division  of  these  seas, 
One  part  of  which  thou  hold'st,  the  great'st  is  mine  ; 
My  realm  the  wid'st ;  and,  of  the  numerous  powers 
That  hold  dominion  in  these  provinces, 
Most  are  to  me  as  tributary  bound, 
Sworn  to  my  bidding,  subject  to  my  will, 
Compell'd  for  peace  and  war  !     These,  if  I  bid, 


ATALANTIS.  137 

I  gather  such  array,  as  leaves  my  power 
Unmatchable  by  all  the  tribes  that  swarm 
Thy  cities,  when  the  starlight  wakes  the  dance. 

ATAL.     I  know  not  that !     The  kingdom  which  I  hold 
Though  in  extent  less  spacious,  is  not  less 
Proportion'd  to  the  incidents  of  war  ! 
Thou  hast  wide  realm  of  sea,  but  scatter'd  tribes  ; 
Canst  gambol  hugely  when  the  waves  are  smooth, 
With  uncouth  legions  ;  but  when  sounds  the  gong, 
Struck  sharply  on  our  headlands,  they  go  down, 
Sudden,  in  search  of  shadowing  slime  and  reeds, 
Forgetting  all  their  state  and  mocking  thine, 
Indifferent  where  they  hide.     Thou  mayst  o'ercome 
The  sluggish  monster,  that,  upon  the  deep, 
Slumbers  at  noonday, — winning,  with  his  life 
The  useless  glitter  of  his  cumbrous  shell ; — 
But,  for  becoming  enemy,  thou  hast 
But  little  armament  of  serious  force, 
Save,  as  I  said,  in  fraud  and  stratagem. 
Art  answer'd  ? 

ONESI.  Wouldst  thou  more  ? 

ATA£.     Oh  !  say  thy  thought ! 

ONESI.     Meetly  indulgent  for  a  captive  maid. — 
I  will  proceed,  and  leave  thee  to  decide, 
"Whether,  a  free  and  queenly  mistress,  thou 
Ascend'st  a  monarch's  throne  and  shar'st  his  rule, 
Strong  in  sustaining  majesty  and  pride, 
Or,  vainly  chafing  at  thy  prison  bar, 
Rav'st  for  the  freedom  that  but  mocks  thy  sight, 
In  gleams  of  blessed  sky,  or  sudden  breath 
Of  zephyr  from  the  seas,  or  glimpse  of  wing, 
Lustrous  in  noonday  sunlight,  that  thou  see'st 
Disparting  the  white  clouds  ! 

ATAL.  Go  on  !     Go  on  ! 


138  ATALANTIS. 

ONESI.     Three  princely  cities  own  my  single  rule, — 
Hamlets  unnumber'd, — homes  that,  scatter'd  wide, 
Hath  each  a  mighty  circle  for  a  court, 
Might  clasp  your  utter  empire.     Plain  and  cave 
Are  thus  made  rich  in  dwellings  for  a  tribe. 
Each  rock  hath  its  high  palace.     Not  a  wave 
Spans  its  receding  billow  but  o'erswims 
Some  golden  habitation  ;  where  the  light, 
A  mitigated  splendor,  like  the  moon, 
Without  its  chill  and  solitude,  comes  down 
From  empires  where  a  thousand  suns  abide, 
Struggling  with  rival  splendors  to  inflame 
A  thousand  realms  like  ours.     There,  subtle  gems, 
With  glories  such  as  starlight  flings  on  earth, 
Adorn  the  innoxious  serpents,  that  for  aye 
Through  the  long  hours,  with  toil  that  mocks  fatigue, 
Nightly  replenishing  their  founts  of  light, 
Trail  through  the  giant  groves,  and  meet  in  vales 
Whose  lavish  wealth,  in  absence  of  the  sun, 
Still  recompense  his  beams.     There  shalt  thou  see 
Rocks,  in  their  own  gifts  marvellous,  at  stroke 
Of  wondrous  masters,  spring  to  palaces ; 
And,  at  a  word,  as  thou  hast  cause  to  know, 
Fair  islands,  flush  with  flowers,  and  rich  in  airs 
Of  most  persuasive  odor,  break  the  deeps, 
And  gather  in  the  sunlight.     And  again, 
Even  at  the  will  of  him  whose  sovereign  power 
Thou  mock'st  at  in  thy  mood,  evanishing, 
Forget  they  had  existence  ; — cheating  thus 
The  gaze  of  simple  mariner,  who  dreams 
That,  towards  evening,  he  beholds  the  land 
And  cries  it  to  his  fellows, — who  straight  cheer 
The  hungering  hope  within  them,  while  they  spread 
The  broad  and  yellow  sail,  and  urge  their  prows, 


ATALANTIS.  139 

To  find  at  last, — so  wills  my  cunning  art — 
Some  hazy  cloud,  that  hangs  with  mocking  skirts 
Where  slept  the  wooing  land  as  night  came  down. 

ATAL.     Ay,  thou  art  all  a  cheat !     'Tis  like  thyself 
To  mock  the  weary  heart,  and  still  to  vex 
The  sick  soul's  expectation.     But  thy  power, 
As  thou  describ'st  it  in  thy  fairest  speech, 
And  most  imploring  aspect,  moves  not  me, 
And  wins  me  not  in  wonder  or  in  love. 
The  simple  mariner  who  needs  the  barque, 
Which,  in  their  reckless  mood,  the  waves  may  wreck, 
And  wanton  winds  destroy,  affords,  methinks, 
But  little  trophy,  with  his  bleaching  bones, 
On  desert  sands,  and  isles  beyond  thy  gulf, 
To  him  who  conquers  thus,  even  by  a  will, 
Without  the  joy  of  conflict.     Spare,  I  pray, 
Thy  farther  story.     Breathe,  and  let  me  breathe, 
Some  purer  air  than  that  which  from  thy  lips 
Assails  each  wholesome  sense  with  sickliness. 

ONESI.     Wilt  thou  not  hear  me  ? 

ATAL.  Can  I  else  than  hear, 

Close  girt  as  my  poor  fortunes  find  me  now  ? 
Wer't  in  my  will,  thou  shouldst  play  orator 
To  things  of  thy  own  fashion,  not  to  me  ! 
Thy  jewel-headed  serpents,  the  huge  beast 
Thou  rid'st  to  war,  and  whom,  when  met  by  foes 
Thou  canst  not  baffle  here,  thou  send'st  to  land, 
To  trample  down  the  cities  of  the  tribes 
That  only  wet  their  feet  within  thy  waves, 
To  bring  down  ruin  on  them.     Go  to  these, 
And  tell  them  of  thy  prowess  and  thy  wealth  ! — 
Nor  these,  nor  thee  I  heed,  and  would  not  hear. 

ONESI.     Thou  bind'st  thy  fetters  faster  with  each  word  ! — 
But  ho  ! — That  signal  breaks  my  farther  speech. 


140  ATALANTIS. 

Here  are  new  captives.     Prone  upon  our  isle 

Comes  some  adventurous  barque  that  must  be  stayed. 

And  punish'd  for  its  crime.     We  must  not  have 

Thy  presence  mock'd  with  such  vile  things  of  earth, 

That  know  not  of  the  rarest  beautiful, 

Such  as  adorns  thy  virtues — makes  thy  form 

Itself  a  virtue  of  the  beautiful, 

That  spells  all  best  affections  at  a  glance, 

And  makes  them  slaves  forever.     I  must  speed 

And  sav«  thee  from  these  wretches,  who  shall  taste 

That  power  which  thou  defy'st.     But  now  look  forth, 

And  see  the  great  ship  shatter'd  into  foam  ; 

Fierce,  rending  wings  among  its  cloud  broad  vans, 

And  mounting  billows  darting  up  its  sides 

To  drag  it  down  to  ruin.     Lend  thine  ear 

To  the  wild  music  of  men's  cries  ; — their  shrieks 

That  the  storm  mocks,  and  the  ascending  seas 

Stifle  in  their  own  murmurs  ! — It  will  need, 

Fair  Atalant,  I  leave  thee : — yet,  ere  day 

Hath  fully,  in  the  chambers  of  the  deep, 

Ta'en  off  his  pinions  ; — ere  this  gentle  eve, 

With  eyes  of  ever-dropping  dews,  hath  shut 

The  sweet  unmurmuring  flowers, — and  bade  the  night 

Summon  upon  her  realm  the  spirit  airs 

That  all  subdue  to  silence — the  voiced  things 

Of  myriad  elements  and  agencies, 

That  breathe  beneath  the  moon — I  shall  return 

To  seek  thee  with  a  hope  ; — ah  !  not  in  vain, — 

Eager  for  fitting  answer  to  that  prayer 

That  else  must  be  the  stern  authority 

Of  will  that  breaks  resistance,     Till  that  hour, 

Thou  hast  for  calm  reflection  ; — let  it  teach 

A  sweet  response  of  sympathy  to  mine, 

And  love  as  yielding  soft  as  mine  is  fond  — 


ATALANTIS.  141 

Else,  let  thy  fear 

ATAL.  Thou  know'st  I  have  no  fear  ! 

Get  thee  hence,  monster,  to  thy  work  of  dread, 
Since  prayer  may  never  move  thee.     Thou'st  no  art 
To  work  upon  my  terrors.     My  spirit  is  made 
Of  essence  far  more  confident  than  thine. 
Rather  thou  tremble,  that,  as  I  am  pure, — 
For  so  the  ruler  that  we  all  obey 
Hath  will'd  it — and  most  haply  will'd  it  too — 
I  may  command  to  use  the  spirits  who  rule 
O'er  the  unclouded  seasons^ — those  who  glide, 
Through  the  illumined  mansions  of  the  night, 
Teaching  the  stars  their  watches — those  who  sway, 
With  melodies  of  power,  all  elements — 
And  of  the  zephyr  from  the  south  and  west, 
The  voice  that  comes  with  morning,  and  declares 
The  hour  when  day  shall  droop,: — can  call  a  spell 
To  dissipate  the  darkness,  and  dispart 
Thy  blackest  shapes  of  storm. 

ONESI.  When  thou  art  free  ! 

ATAL.     Alas  !  that  I  were  free, — then  should'st  thou  feel, 
And  fly,  and  learn  to  spare  ! 

ONESI.  ISTow,  I  despise 

And,  as  you  speak  their  agencies,  defy 
The  entire  realm  of  air,  the  stars,  and  all, — 
Your  spirit  of  the  south  and  of  the  west, 
Your  voice  of  night  and  morning,  and  their  spells  ; — 
Your  tiny  tribes,  your  coral  queen — the  hosts, 
Myriads  of  lesser  power  and  feebler  wing, 
That  make  your  choice  dominion — all  I  scorn  ! 
And,  but  that  mine  own  want  would  have  thee  grace 
With  milder  seeming  this  same  prayer  of  mine, 
I  should  devote  thee,  heedless  of  the  youth, 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  thy  form, — 


142  ATALANTIS. 

Which,  to  mine  eye,  foul  as  you  deem  its  make, 

Stands  up  a  rich  perfection,  born  to  shine, 

In  any  world  of  loveliness,  the  first — 

To  the  same  ruin  and  destruction  sure 

Thou  hold'st  for  the  most  hateful  enemy. 

I  love  thee  not  to  pleasure  thee,  or  give 

A  satisfaction  craved.     I  please  myself, 

And  nothing  care  for  others.     I  play  not 

The  wary  hypocrite,  but  speak  my  thought, — 

My  will,  even  as  it  rises  to  my  thought ; — 

Nor  seek  I  for  thy  love,  but  only  seek 

For  such  equivalent  as  may  suffice, 

In  love's  own  absence,  my  enamored  sense. 

Thou  hear'st  me  ? — and  thou  know'st  me  !     It  is  well ! 

Be  wise  while  thou  art  wary.     I  depart.  [Exit  Onesi. 

ATAL.     Ay,  go,  thou  loathsome  !     Thou  hast  fill'd  the  air 
With  foulness,  and  my  breath  is  scarce  more  free 
Than  the  poor  form  thou  hast  fetter'd  by  thy  fraud  ! 
Thou,  as  thy  menace,  from  my  thought  depart : 
I  scorn  thee  and  defy  thy  utmost  power  1 
Thou  hast  no  art  to  win  me  to  thy  will, 
And,  until  I,  forgetful  of  myself, 
Do  so  declare  me,  thou  canst  never  bend 
My  spirit  to  thy  purpose.     I  behold, — 
Though  in  what  shape  it  come  I  may  not  see, — 
My  liberation  sure.     Awhile,  awhile  ! 
Sweet  patience  in  my  circumscribed  bound, 
Give  me  thy  succor.     Ere  the  moon  shall  soar 
-ThnVp.  from  her  saffron  chamber — ere  the  winds, 
Sporting  thrice  round  the  red  embodied  day 
Shall  win  him  into  smiles  with  melodies — 
And,  ere  the  wing'd  stars,  through  the  misty  vault, 
Gleam  thrice  upon  the  troubles  of  the  night — 
I  shall  be  free  this  monster's  pestilence. 
Come  hither  to  me,  Nea.    Thou,  at  least, 


ATALAXTIS.  143 


Art  spared  me,  and  lie  knows  not — shallow  king  ! 
That  knows  not  his  own  power,  and  little  dreams, 
Of  captive  but  the  one.     Hither  to  me, 
And  let  my  sad  eyes  freshen  with  the  sight, 
The  picture  of  the  gentler  clime  and  race, 
In  thy  perfections,  damsel.     Wake  thy  shell, 
And  with  a  sweet  song  from  its  purple  depths, 
Call  up  the  happier  fancies  that  preside 
O'er  the  dear  hopes  we  see  not.     Let  me  lose 
The  turbulent  thought  within  me  ! 


SCENE    II.  —  The  same. 
Atalantis,  Nea. 

NEA.     Mistress,  here ! 

ATAL.     Thy  sweetest  song,  my  Nea, — 
Such  as  he  sings,  the  spirit  of  the  shell, 
That  brooding  in  his  billows  never  sleeps, 
For  longing  of  his  home,  and  still  who  hears 
Its  voices,  breathing  ever  sighs  of  love, 
In  echo  to  his  own,  by  ocean's  marge, 
Telling  of  purple  islets  in  the  deep, 
Where  first  he  won  his  wings  and  whence  his  voice. 

SONG  OF  THE  SHELL-SPIRIT. 
I. 

I  am  of  the  sprites  of  ocean, 

Dweller  there,  the  gentlest  one, 
And  I  take  my  airy  motion, 

When  the  day  is  done ; 
It  is  mine,  the  voice  that  rouses 

All  the  lovely  tribes  of  sea, 
From  their  tiny  coral  houses, 

Glad  to  wake  with  me. 


144  ATALANTIS. 


II. 

When  the  sun,  in  ocean  sinking, 

Leaves  to  fairy  power  the  earth, 
When  the  night  stars,  slowly  winking, 

Bid  the  winds  have  birth  : 
Gently  o'er  the  waters  stealing, 

Mine's  the  song  that  sweetly  flies, 
Wooing  to  one  common  feeling 

Ocean,  earth,  and  skies. 

III. 

Loveliest  of  the  zephyr's  daughters, 

Born  to  breathe  in  bloom  and  shine, 
I  can  still  the  angry  waters 

With  a  breath  of  mine. 
Not  a  stronger  spirit  rideth 

O'er  the  rolling  waves  than  I ; 
Not  a  lovelier  shape  abideth 

'Neath  the  tropic  sky. 

ATAL.     Sweet  is  the  air  tliou  sing'st !     All !  would  'twere  true  ! 
Would  that  our  spirit  of  the  shell  had  power, 
Such  as  thou  brag'st  of; — it  were  easy  then, 
Flung  by  our  billows  on  this  sultry  isle, 
To  conjure  up  a  service  at  his  wings, 
Might  give  us  present  freedom.     Thou  hast  themes, 
Might  better  suit  our  state  than  this,  which  mocks 
Our  hearts'  best  wishes.     One  of  these,  my  girl, — 
Some  ditty  of  old  romance,  such  as  our  realm — 
A  spacious  province,  where  the  wand'ring  thought 
And  wilder'd  fancy,  erring,  may  be  lost — 
Owns  without  limit.     Thou  canst  meetly  sing 
Of  bearded- white  Ogrear,  the  giant  king, 
Who,  with  the  music  of  his  magic  horn, 
Subdued,  and  to  his  pastures  midst  the  rocks, 


A  T  A  L  A  N  T  I  S . 

Guided  the  monster  first,  which,  in  itself, 

Is  a  huge  mountain,  rolling  on  the  deeps, 

Unconscious  of  his  load,  though  on  his  back, 

Kode  the  old  wizard's  tribe — his  giant  sons 

And  daughters,  an  unnumbered  family, 

That  sung  in  concert  to  the  old  man's  horn, 

Until  the  monster,  drowsing  in  his  path, 

Yielded  himself,  as  fast  fix'd  as  an  isle, 

Through  the  long  summer's  day.     This  were  a  theme, 

Might  make  us  half  forgetful  that  we  weep 

As  fettered  as  was  he.     And  other  themes, — 

The  gloom  that  hangs  above  the  prison-house, 

Might  challenge  something  from  thy  memory, 

More  kindred  to  the  touch  of  mournful  thoughts. 

Let  thy  song  teach  us  of  the  coming  hour, — 

Sad  time, — when  on  the  perillous  journey  bent, 

We  pass  the  untravell'd  valley,  till  we  find, 

That  other  province  of  delay, — that  home, 

Of  temporary  refuge,  dark  or  bright, 

As  suited  to  the  service  we  have  done, 

In  past  conditions  ; — other  seas,  perchance, 

Unvex'd  by  contact  with  rebellious  power, 

Such  as  offends  us  here  ; — a  happy  realm, 

Whose  provinces  are  lit  by  countless  smiles, 

From  the  benignant  presence  of  a  God, 

Whose  will  is  born  of  love  ! — or,  saddest  thought, 

Descending  from  our  grade,  in  baser  shape, 

Doom'd  in  the  mansions  of  sea-weed  to  dwell, 

Thence  only  darting,  under  cruel  impulse, 

And  chasing,  with  a  terrible  agony, 

The  wild  and  staring  mariner,  grown  weak, 

And  hopeless  of  the  shore,  his  straining  balls 

Shall  never  more  encounter. 

NBA.  None  of  these ! — 

VOL.  i.  7 


146  A  T  A  L  A  N  T  I  S  . 

Too  sad  thy  fortunes  now  for  themes  so  sad. — 

But  I  would  rather  from  my  memory  call, 

Some  of  those  ditties  sung  in  happier  days, 

Which  thou  hast  bid  me  thrice  and  thrice  repeat, 

And  ever  with  the  tear  within  thine  eye, 

"Which  spoke  thy  pleasure — when,  upon  the  close, 

Thou  didst,  unconscious,  with  mine  own  chime  in 

The  murmurs  of  thy  melancholy  voice, 

Till  the  vex'd  waters,  wroth  with  overflow, 

Subdued  their  sullen  crests,  in  service  rapt, 

And,  at  thy  feet,  in  murmurs  like  thine  own, 

Grew  captive  to  our  song.     There  is  one  strain 

Methinks  might  glad  thine  ear,  of  Coraline — 

One  of  those  gentle  damsels  of  the  groves, 

Whom  sometimes  we  see  sporting  on  the  isles, 

Amidst  the  flowers,  when  first  upon  the  sky 

The  moon's  bright  sickle  glows.     She  taught  it  me  ; — 

It  tells  of  love,  and  how  they  love,  and  speaks 

So  truly  of  the  passion,  that  meseems, 

It  must  have  first  been  wrought  within  our  cells, 

And  borrowed  by  these  warblers  of  the  wood. 

ATAL.     Sing,  if  it  speaks  of  love.     Such  song,  methinks, 
Must  only  make  more  hateful  our  constraint, 
Upon  this  loathsome  isle.     I  hearken  thee. 


SONG   OF  CORALINE. 

I. 

Be  at  my  side  when  the  winds  are  awaking, 
Each  from  his  cave,  in  the  depths  of  the  night ; 

Fly  to  our  groves,  till  the  daylight  comes  breaking, 
Fresh  from  the  east  with  his  tremulous  light. 

When  the  stars  peer  out  in  the  blue  deeps  of  even, 
When  the  crowd  is  at  rest,  and  the  moon  soars  apace, 


ATALANTIS.  147 

Silent  and  sad,  through  the  watches  of  heaven, 
Be  thou,  beloved,  at  the  love-hallow' d  place : 
Come  in  thy  beauty  and  lightness, 

Bright-eyed  and  free-footed,  oh  !  dearest  one,  come, 
Filling  the  dark  wood  with  brightness 

And  crowning  the  green  hill  with  bloom  ; — 
Such  bloom — the  heart-chosen  for  thousand  sweet  groves, 
As  is  dear  to  the  wood-nymphs  and  born  of  their  loves. 

II. 

In  the  spirit  of  beauty,  bewitchingly  tender, 

Fly  to  my  bosom,  beloved  of  my  heart ; 
Thy  lip  bearing  sweetness,  thine  eye  giving  splendor, 

Thy  smile  shedding  rapture  wherever  thou  art ; 
And  while  the  pale  moonlight  is  round  and  above  thee, 

While  the  leaves  twinkle  soft  in  the  breeze  o'er  thy  ' 
Hear,  dearest  rose  of  my  heart,  how  I  love  thee, 

And  treasure,  sweet  spirit,  my  vow. 

Come  !  while  the  night-gems  are  glowing, 
Each  in  his  orb,  over  forest  and  sea, 

Less  glory,  though  bright  in  their  beauty,  bestowing 

Than  that  which  now  hangs  about  thee. 
Fly  to  me,  blest,  in  this  gentlest  of  hours, 
Outshining  the  planets,  outblooming  the  flowers. 

ATAL.     Thy  song  delights  me  not — nay,  jiot  thy  song 
That  fails,  the  softness  of  thy  linked  words, 
Or  melody  of  thy  music  ; — in  my  heart, 
Lies  the  defect  of  sweetness — which  conies  not 
To  take  the  shadow  from  our  prison-house. 
It  is  the  captive's  spirit  that  complains, 
Not  Atalantis. 

NEA.  Would  I  could  cheer  thee,  mistress. 

ATAL.     Thou  shalt,  my  Nea. — Speed  thee  round  this  isle, 
And  mark  what  thou  behold'st.     'Tis  not  in  thee 
To  shrink  from  contact  with  the  heavy  earth, 
Its  damp  and  vapor.     But  to  us,  who  are 


148  ATALANTIS. 

Wrought  of  more  delicate  matter,  all  is  gross 
That  yields  this  monster  tribute. 

NBA.  We've  some  range, 

Sweet  mistress  !  and  I  prithee  wend  with  me, 
As  near  we  may,  the  borders  of  the  sea, 
Looking  towards  our  province.     Better  airs 
Methinks,  will  come  to  cheer  us  into  smiles, 
From  waters  that  we  loved ;  and  newer  hopes, 
As  we  look  out  upon  the  waste  beyond, 
Will  freshen  us  with  strength.     Along  the  sea, 
Some  little  range  is  left  us.     There  we  may 
Call  up  sweet  fancies  from  our  dreams  of  hope, 
And  feel  the  wayward  spirit  wake  to  life, 
Surveying  the  blue  waters  and  our  home  ! 

ATAL.     I'll  go  with  thee  !     I  pine  for  the  sweet  airs 
Of  my  own  Mergevan. 

NBA.  They'll  seek  us  out, 

With  loving  consciousness  of  that  we  seek. 


ATALANTIS. 


ACT   II.— SCENE   I. 

The  Ocean :  the  islet  of  Onesimarchus  in  the  background — a  ship 
in  tlw  distance,  approaching.  The  Zephyr-Spirit  rides  upon  the 
billow. 

ZEPHYR-SPIRIT.     It  is  a  gallant  vessel,  and  it  bends, 
To  the  new  islet  of  Onesimarch  ; — 
That  bigot  and  most  brutal  arbiter 
Of  eighty  leagues  of  ocean.     He  hath  rear'd, 
In  the  past  day,  these  undetected  rocks, 
Whose  subtle  currents,  by  his  strategy, 
Will  suck  the  unconscious  vessel  to  the  snare ; 
Baffling  the  untutor'd  mariner,  whose  skill 
Might  vainly  hope  escape,  within  the  jaws 
Of  this  dread  artifice.     Now,  in  the  deep, 
Will  I  dispose  myself ;  and,  by  my  art, 
Conceal'd  in  folding  billows,  in  the  guise 
Of  green-hair'd  maid  of  the  waters,  with  a  song 
Still  gently  studied  to  invade  his  sense, 
Will  teach  him  of  the  danger  he  may  'scape 
By  seasonable  flight.     A  human  voice 
'Tis  mine  to  mingle  with  these  ocean  tones. 
And,  by  a  sweet  mysterious  sympathy, 
That  ever  still  its  benefit  declares 
To  the  unslumb'ring  instinct,  will  I  teach 
The  error  of  his  prow.     Haply,  by  this, 
His  way  he  may  regain,  and  newly  trim 
His  prone  and  headlong  sail,  that,  steering  thus, 
Must  soon  encounter  with  the  treacherous  rocks, 


150  ATALANTIS. 

That  hunger  for  their  prey.     And,  to  my  wish 
Of  swift  concealment  from  his  eager  sight, 
A  sudden  cloud  is  spreading  o'er  yon  heap 
Of  crested  waters.     There  will  I  imbed 
My  many  folds  of  form,  while,  with  my  voice, 
I  frame  a  music  for  this  mariner, 
Not  to  beguile  him  with  fresh  fantasies, 
But  wake  him  to  the  peril  in  his  path. 

[Scene  changes  to  the  deck  of  the  ship.     Count  Leon  musing 

at  the  side. 

LEON,  [so?ws.]     I  have  been  drowsing  sure, — yet  what  a  dream, 
So  strange  to  earth,  so  natural  to  romance ; — 
And  such  wild  music ; — hark  ! — it  comes  again. 


SONG   OF   THE  ZEPHYR-SPIRIT. 


I  have  come  from  the  deeps  where  the  sea-maiden  twines, 

In  her  bowers  of  amber,  her  garlands  of  shells  ; 
For  a  captive  like  thee,  in  her  chamber  she  pines, 

And  -weaves  for  thy  coming  the  subtlest  of  spells  ; 
She  has  breathed  on  the  harpstring  that  sounds  in  her  cave, 

And  the  strain  as  it  rose  hath  been  murmur'd  for  thee  ; 
She  would  win  thee  from  earth  for  her  home  in  the  wave, 

And  her  couch,  in  the  coral  grove,  deep  in  the  sea. 

II. 

Thou  hast  dream'd  in  thy  boyhood  of  sea-circled  bowers, 

Where  all  may  be  found  that  is  joyous  and  bright, — 
Where  life  is  a  frolic  through  fancies  and  flowers, 

And  the  soul  lives  in  dreams  of  a  lasting  delight ! 
Wouldst  thou  win  what  thy  fancies  have  taught  to  thy  heart  ? 

Wouldst  thou  dwell  with  the  maiden  now  pining  for  thee  ? 
Flee  away  from  the  cares  of  the  earth,  and  depart 

For  her  mansions  of  coral,  far  down  in  the  sea. 


ATALANTIS.  151 


in. 

Her  charms  will  beguile  thee  when  noonday  is  nigh, 

The  song  of  her  nymphs  shall  persuade  thee  to  sleep, 
She  will  watch  o'er  thy  couch  as  the  storm  hurries  by, 

Nor  suffer  the  sea-snake  beside  thee  to  creep  ; 
But  still  with  a  charm  which  is  born  of  the  hours 

Her  love  shall  implore  thee  to  bliss  ever  free  ; 
Thou  wilt  rove  with  delight  through  her  crystalline  bowers, 

And  sleep  without  care  in  her  home  of  the  sea. 

LEON.     Most  sweet  indeed,  but  something  in  the  spell 
Proclaims  it  cold.     Even  were  the  precious  love 
Such  as  this  music  speaks  of,  'twere  enough 
To  palsy  passion  in  the  human  heart, 
And  make  its  fancies  fail. — My  Isabel. 

Enter  Isabel. 

ISABEL.     What  wraps  you  thus,  sweet  brother  ?     Why  so  sad, 
When  thus  so  trimly  speeds  our  swanlike  bark 
O'er  the  smooth  waters  ?     But  a  few  days  more, 
We  tread  the  lovely  island  that  we  seek, 
Whose  bowers  of  beauty  and  eternal  spring 
Recall  the  first  sweet  garden  of  our  race, 
Before  it  knew  the  serpent.     Dost  thou  sadden, 
That  thus  we  near  those  regions  ?     Art  thou  sick, 
Dear  brother,  that  such  vague  abstraction  creeps 
Over  your  eyes,  that  seem  as  'twere  in  search 
For  airy  speculations  in  the  deep  ? 

LEON.     Thou'rt  right ! — An  airy  speculation  sure, 
Since  I  can  nothing  see  to  speak  for  it, 
And  tell  me  whence  it  comes. 

ISABEL.  What  is't  thou  mean'st  ? 

LEON.     A  moment, — stay  !     Now,  as  I  live,  I  heard  it 
Steal  by  ,me,  as  the  murmurs  of  a  lute 
From  thy  own  lattice,  Isabel. 


152  ATALAXTIS. 

• 

ISABEL.  Wliat  heard'st  ? — 

What  is  it  that  thou  speak'st  of? 

LEON.  A  strain  of  song, — 

That  crept  along  the  waters  from  afar, 
Softly  at  first,  but  growing  as  it  came 
To  an  embodied  strength  of  harmony, 
That  spoke  to  all  my  joys.     It  bore  a  tone 
Slight  as.  a  spirit's  whisper,  born  of  love 
In  aspiration, — si*ch  as  innocent  youth 
Acknowledges  at  first,  ere  yet  the  world 
Hath  school'd  it  through  its  sorrows  to  caprice. 
'Twas  like  thy  own  sweet  music,  Isabel, 
"When  out  among  our  Andalusian  hills,. 
We  play'd  the  dusk  Morisco  for  a  while, 
Grown  wanton  in  the  moonlight  with  the  flowers 
That  seem'd  to  sing  us  back.     Oh  I  thou  shouldst  hearr 
To  sadden  with  its  sweetness. 

ISABEL.  Thou  hast  dream'd  ! 

Whence  should  such  music  come  ? 

LEON.  Ay  !  whence  indeed,, 

But  from  some  green-hair'd  maiden  of  the  deep, 
As  still  our  legends  tell  us  such  there  be, 
That,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  lonely  rocks, 
Midway  in  ocean,  loose  their  flowing  locks, 
And,  with  strange  songs,  discoursing  to  the  waves,, 
Subdue  their  crests  to  service. 

ISABEL,  As  the  tale 

Of  Nicuesa  pictures.     Wouldst  thou  hear  I 

LEON.     Sing  it,  my  Isabel. 

ISABEL.  Tis  something  like 

Thy  fancy, — nay,  has  been  the  making  of 't, 
While  thou  wert  dreaming.     But  thou  didst  not  dream. 


ATALANTIS.  153 


BALLAD. 


'Mong  Lucayo's  isles  and  waters, 
Leaping  to  the  evening  light, 
Dance  the  moonlight's  silver  daughters — 
Tresses  streaming,  glances  gleaming, 
Ever  beautiful  and  bright. 

II. 

And  their  wild  and  mellow  voices, 

Still  to  hear  along  the  deep, 
Every  brooding  star  rejoices, 
While  the  billow,  on  its  pillow 

Lull'd  to  silence,  sinks  to  sleep. 

III. 

Yet  they  wake  a  song  of  sorrow, 

Those  sweet  voices  of  the  night ; 
Still  from  grief  a  gift  they  borrow, 
And  hearts  shiver,  as  they  quiver 
With  a  wild  and  sad  delight. 

IV. 

'Tis  the  wail  for  life  they  waken 

By  Samana's  lonely  shore  ; 
With  the  tempest  it  is  shaken, 
The  wide  ocean  is  in  motion, 

And  the  song  is  heard  no  more. 

V. 

But  the  gallant  bark  comes  sailing, 

At  her  prow  the  chieftain  stands  ; 
He  hath  heard  the  tender  wailing — 
It  delights  him — it  invites  him 
To  the  joys  of  other  lands. 


ATALANTIS. 

VI. 

Bright  the  moonlight  round  and  o'er  him, 

And,  oh  !  see,  a  picture  lies 
In  the  yielding  waves  before  him, — 
Woman  smiling,  still  beguiling 
From  the  depths  of  wondrous  eyes. 

VII. 

"White  arms  toss  above  the  waters, 

Pleading  murmurs  fill  his  ears, 
And  the  Queen  of  Ocean's  daughters, 
Heart  alluring,  love  assuring, 
Wins  him  down  with  tears. 

VIII. 

On,  the  good  ship  speeds  without  him, 

By  Samana's  lonely  shore  ; 
They  have  wound  their  arms  about  him, 
In  the  water's — ocean's  daughters 
Sadly  singing  as  before. 

LEON.     Unhappy  Nicuesa ! 

ISABEL.  Such  his  song, 

And,  with  the  ocean  murmur  in  thy  ears, 
Thy  fancy,  in  thy  dream,  hath  made  it  thine. 

LEON.     I  did  not  sleep  or  dream,  my  Isabel ; — 
I  heard  this  wondrous  music,  even  now, 
When  first  I  surnmon'd  thee.     I  grant  it  strange 
That  it  should  syllable  to  familiar  sound, 
Boyhood's  first  fancies,  of  fair  isles  that  lie 
In  farthest  depths  of  ocean, — jewell'd  isles 
Boundless  in  but  imaginable  spoils, 
Such,  as  boy-visions  only  can  conceive 
And  boyhood's  faith  admit. 

ISABEL.  And  still  thon  dream'st ! — 


ATALANTIS.  155 

Thy  boyhood's  legends  and  thy  boyhood's  faith, 

Grown  fresh  beneath  the  force  of  circumstance, 

And  the  wild  fancies  of  this  foreign  world, 

Still  carry  thee  away, — till  thou  forget'st, — 

As  still  the  wisest  may, — the  difference 

'Twixt  those  two  worlds, — the  one  where  nature  toils, 

The  other  she  but  dreams  of. 

LEON.  'Twas  no  dream  ! 

It  comes  again  !     Now  hark  thee,  Isabel — 
It  is  no  murmur  of  the  deep  thou  hear'st ! 
It  hath  a  voice  not  human, — not  unlike — 
And  sings,  as  still  a  spirit  might  sing,  that  wills 
To  do  humanity  service.     Hark  ! 

ISABEL.  I  do  ! — 

Yet  I  hear  nothing. 

LEON.  Sure,  I  did  not  dream  ! 

'Twas  like  the  zephyr  through  a  bed  of  reeds 
Sighing  as  'twere  at  cheerlessness  of  home, 
In  the  approach  of  winter. 

ISABEL.  Oh  !  no  more  ! — 

Thou  art  too  led  astray  by  idle  thoughts, 
Dear  Leon  ; — dost  possess  thee  of  the  hues, 
Shed  by  the  passing  cloud,  and  mak'st  thy  heart, 
Still  the  abiding  place  of  hopeless  fancies 
That  waste  thy  strength  of  will.     Thou  art  too  prone 
To  these  wild  speculations. 

LEON.  Hear  it  now  ! 

My  fancy  trick'd  me  not, — my  sense  was  true, — 
It  comes  again,  far  off,  and  very  fine, 
As  the  first  birth  'twixt  silence  and  his  dame, 
The  mother  of  the  voice.     Now,  Isabel, — 
Thine  ears  are  traitors  if  they  do  not  feel 
That  music  as  it  sweeps  by  us  but  now. 

ISABEL.     I  hear  a  murmur  truly,  but  so  slight — 


150  ATALAXTIS, 

A  breath  of  the  wind  might  make  it,  or  a  sail 
Drawn  suddenly. 

LEON,  Art  silenced  ?     It  is  there  I 


ZEPHYR-SPIRIT. 

In  the  billow  before  thee 

My  form  is  conceal' d — 
In  the  breath  that  comes  o'er  thee* 

My  thought  is  rereai'd — 
Strown  thickly  beneath  me 

The  coral  rocks  grow, 
And  the  waves  that  enwreath  me,, 

Are  working  thee  woe. 

LEON.     Didst  hear  it,  Isabel  ? 

ISABEL.  It  spoke,  methoughtr 

Of  peril  from  the  rocks  that  near  us  grow. 

LEON.     It  did,  but  idly  I     Here  can  lurk  no  rocks 
For,  by  the  chart  which  now  before  us  lies, 
Thy  own  unpractised  eye  may  well  discern 
The  wide  extent  of  the  ocean — shoreless  all ; 
The  land,  for  many  a  league,  to  th*  westward  hangs, 
And  not  a  point  beside  it. 

ISABEL.  Wherefore  then, 

Should  come  this  voice  of  warning  ? 

LEON.  From  the  deep  : 

It  hath  its  demons  as  the  earth  and  air, 
All  tributaries  to  the*  master-fiend 
That  sets  their  springs  in  motion.     This  is  one, 
That,  doubting  to  mislead  us,  plants  this  wile, 
So  to  divert  our  course,  that  we  may  strike 
The  very  rocks  he  fain  would  warn  us  from. 

ISABEL.     A  subtle  sprite — and,  now  I  think  of  it, 
Dost  thou  remember  the  old  story  told 


ATALANTIS.  157 

By  Diaz  Ortis,  the  lame  mariner, 

Of  an  adventure  in  the  Indian  seas, 

Where  he  made  one  with  John  of  Portugal, — 

Touching  a  woman  of  the  ocean  wave 

That  swam  beside  the  barque  and  sang  strange  songs 

Of  riches  in  the  waters  ; — with  a  speech 

So  winning  on  the  senses,  that  the  crew 

Grew  all  infected  with  the  melody, 

And,  but  for  a  good  father  of  the  church 

Who  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  and  offer'd  up 

Befitting  prayer,  which  drove  the  fiend  away, 

They  had  been  tempted  by  her  cunning  voice 

To  leap  into  the  ocean. 

LEON.  I  do,  I  do  ! 

And,  at  the  time,  I  do  remember  me, 
I  made  much  mirth  of  the  extravagant  tale, 
As  a  deceit  of  the  reason  ; — the  old  man 
Being  in  his  second  childhood,  and  at  fits, 
As  wild,  in  other  histories,  as  in  this. 

ISABEL.     I  never  more  shall  mock  at  marvellous  things ; 
Such  strange  conceits  hath  after  time  found  true, 
That  once  were  themes  for  jest.     I  shall  not  smile 
At  the  most  monstrous  legend. 

LEON.  Nor  will  I ! — 

To  any  tale  of  foreign  wonderment, 
I  shall  bestow  mine  ear  nor  wonder  more  ; 
And  every  image  that  my  childhood  bred, 
In  vagrant  dreams  of  fancy,  I  shall  look, 
To  find,  without  rebuke,  my  sense  approve. 
Thus,  like  a  little  island  of  the  deep, 
Girdled  by  perilous  seas,  and  all  unknown 
To  prows  of  venture,  may  be  yon  same  cloud 
Specking,  with  fleecy  bosom,  the  blue  sky, 
Lit  by  the  rising  moon.     There,  we  may  dream, 


158  ATALANTIS. 

And  find  no  censure  in  an  after  day, 

Throng  the  assembled  fairies,  perch'd  on  beams, 

And  riding  on  their  way  triumphantly. 

There  gather  the  coy  spirits.     Many  a  fay, 

Roving  the  silver  sands  of  that  same  isle, 

Floating  in  azure  ether,  plumes  her  wing 

Of  ever-frolicsome  fancy,  and  pursues — 

While  myriads  like  herself,  do  watch  the  chase — 

Some  truant  sylph,  through  the  infinitude 

Of  their  uncircumscribed  and  rich  domain. 

There  sport  they  through  the  night,  with  mimicry 

Of  strife  and  battle, — striking  their  tiny  shields 

And  gathering  into  combat ;  meeting  fierce, 

With  lip  compress'd,  and  spear  aloft,  and  eye 

Glaring  with  desperate  purpose  in  the  fight ; — 

Then  sudden — in  a  moment  all  their  wrath 

Mellow'd  to  friendly  terms  of  courtesy — 

Throwing  aside  the  dread  array  and  link'd, 

Each,  in  his  foe's  embrace.     Then  comes  the  dance, 

The  grateful  route,  the  wild  and  musical  pomp, 

The  long  procession  o'er  fantastic  realms 

Of  cloud  and  moonbeam,  through  th'  enamor'd  night, 

Making  it  all  one  revel.     Thus,  the  eye 

Breathed  on  by  fancy,  with  enlarged  scope, 

Through  the  protracted  and  deep  hush  of  night, 

May  note  the  fairies,  coursing  the  lazy  hours, 

In  various  changes,  and  without  fatigue. 

A  fickle  race,  who  tell  their  time  by  flowers, 

And  live  on  zephyrs,  and  have  stars  for  lamps, 

And  night-dews  for  ambrosia  ;  perch'd  on  beams, 

Speeding  through  space,  even  with  the  scattering  light 

On  which  they  feed  and  frolic. 

ISABEL.  A  wild  dream  ! — 

And  yet,  since  this  old  tale  of  Diaz  Ortis, 


ATALANTIS.  159 

That  moved  our  laughter  once,  is  thus  made  sooth, 
Perchance,  not  all  a  dream. 

LEON.  Yet,  may  we  doubt ! — 

There  may  be  something  in  this  marvel  still 
Of  human  practice.     Man  hath  wondrous  powers, 
Most  like  a  God  ; — that,  with  each  hour  of  toil, 
Perfect  themselves  in  actions  strangely  great. 
Some  cunning  seaman,  having  natural  skill, 
As  by  the  books  we  learn  hath  oft  been  done, 
Hath  'y°nd  our  vessel's  figure  pitch'd  his  voice, — 
With  gay  deceit  of  unsuspected  art, 
Leading  us  wantonly. 

ISABEL.  It  is  not  so  ; — 

Or,  does  my  sense  deceive  ?     Look,  where  the  wave 
A  perch  beyond  our  vessel,  grows  in  folds 
That  seem  not  like  the  element.     Dost  see  ? 

LEON.     A  marvellous  shape  that  with  the  billow  curls, 
In  gambols  of  the  deep,  and  yet  is  not 
Its  wonted  burden  ;  for,  beneath  the  waves, 
I  mark  the  elaborate  windings  of  a  form, 
That  heaves  and  flashes  with  an  antic  play, 
As  if  to  win  our  gaze. 

ISABEL.  Again — it  sings. 

ZEPHYR-SPIRIT 


By  the  planet  at  whose  bid, 

I  must  close  the  heavy  lid, 

Ere  the  hour  that  wings  my  flight 

I  unfold  me  to  your  sight, 

That  your  -wondering  thoughts  may  find, 

Wherewith  to  awake  the  mind  ; — 

To  arouse  ye  with  a  fear, 

Do  I  sing  and  wanton  here  ; 


160  A  T  A  L  A  N  T  I  S  . 

Sing  with  sorrow  lest  too  late, 
Ye  awaken  to  your  fate  : 
Hearken  to  my  voice  and  fly, 
For  the  danger  lurketh  nigh. 


II. 

Deem  me  not  a  form  of  ill, 

Free  to  lure  and  injure  still ; — 

Mine's  the  gentler  task  to  save 

From  the  perils  of  the  wave. 

"When  thou  feel'st  the  tempest's  shocks, 

I  send  breezes  off  the  rocks  ; 

When  the  ocean's  calm  as  death, 

From  me  comes  the  tradewind's  breath  • 

For  my  essence  is  not  made 

Of  the  cold  and  gloomy  shade, 

But  of  gentlest  dews  of  night, 

And  of  purest  rays  of  light. 


III. 

Heed  me  then,  and  turn  thy  prow 
From  the  rocks  that  wait  thee  now ; — 
Close  beneath  thee,  do  they  sleep 
In  the  hollows  of  the  deep  : 
And  thy  sail  is  truly  prone 
"Where  the  yellow  sand  is  strown  ; 
And  no  human  power  can  save 
From  the  terrors  of  the  wave, 
Smooth,  and  gently  gliding,  now, 
"With  a  whisper,  round  thy  prow  ; 
In  an  hour  and  all  is  o'er — 
Thou  wilt  hear  my  voice  no  more. 

LEON.     'Tis  passing  strange,  and  it  were  well  to  rouse 
The  master  to  this  marvel.     What,  ho  !  there  ! 
Hark  ye,  good  Mendez  Celer,  lend  awhile 
Your  presence  here  on  deck. 


ATALANTIS.  Id 

Enter  Mendez  Celer. 

MENDEZ.  Who  summons  me  ? 

Ha  !  brave  Don  Leon,  but  thou  look'st  as  wild, 
As  thou  hadst  spoke  some  monster  of  the  deep, 
And  shipp'd  his  tidings  in  a  sea  of  foam. 
Hadst  thou  but  weather'd  awhile  the  Indian  seas, 
As  I  have  done,  where,  from  his  fiery  steep, 
El  Norte  plunges  headlong  o'er  the  seas, 
Smiting  the  billows  with  his  scourge  of  wings 
Till  their  gray  scalps  lie  flat,  methinks  thine  eyes, 
That  find  a  wonder  in  each  hour  of  change, 
Would  soon  grow  slow  to  marvel. 

LEON.  It  may  be, — 

Yet  there's  a  marvel  here  to  challenge  well 
Thy  old  experience  in  these  wizard  seas. 
Here  swam  a  voice  that  spoke  to  us  in  song 
Of  most  prevailing  sweetness.     There  it  rose — 
Even  from  yon  heap  of  waters,  which  thou  see'st 
Still  stirring  with  an  action  not  their  own, 
LTnlike  the  rest  of  the  ocean.     Thou  mayst  note 
Where  the  sea  rises  and  the  billows  toss, 
Still  swelling  in  strange  folds.     'Tis  there  it  moves, — 
From  thence  the  music  came. 

MEN.  What  said  the  song  ? 

A  ditty  of  the  marvellous  love,  I  ween, 
The  girl  of  the  ocean  bears  thee — was  it  not  ? 

LEON.     No,  in  no  wise  ! — the  tones  it  used  were  soft, 
And  the  words  gentle,  and  the  music  sweet, 
But  yet  it  spoke  no  love  and  ask'd  for  none. — 
It  rather  told  of  danger  to  our  barque  ; — 
Of  rocks  in  certain  and  near  neighborhood, 
And  shoals  and  sands,  that,  close  beneath  our  prow, 
Are  lurking  to  ensnare. 


162  ATALANTIS. 

MEN.  Bali !  good  Don  Leon  ! 

'Tis,  as  we  say  in  Palos,  a  poor  devil 
That  goes  without  his  brimstone. — A  dull  cheat 
Who  when  he  shows  his  hook  forgets  the  bait. 
Your  sea -girl  was  a  young  one.     Mark  me  now, 
There  is  no  land — no  single  spot  of  shore 
Whereon  a  plank  or  spar  might  lie  at  ease, 
Within  a  three  day's  sail  of  us.     I've  been 
Some  thirty  years  a  mariner,  and  scarce, 
In  all  that  time,  have  been  from  off  the  seas 
A  month  or  two,  at  farthest,  at  a  spell ; 
And  this  same  route  o'er  which  we  travel  now, 
Comes  to  me  as  my  nightcap  or  my  prayers — 
I  put  not  on  the  one,  nor  say  the  other, 
Yet  both  are  done,  the  thanks  to  Mary  Mother, 
And  I  am  none  the  wiser. 

LEON.  It  is  strange 

That  we  should  hear  this  music  ! 

MEN.  Not  a  whit. 

I've  oftentimes  heard  from  the  Portuguese — 
I'm  rather  one  myself,  belike  you  know, 
My  father  having  stray'd,  at  a  wrong  time, 
From  Lisbon  to  my  mother's  house  at  Palos, 
And  then  it  came  about  that  I  was  born — 
(Nothing  ill-graced  to  Lady  Isabel ;) 
And,  as  I  say,  it  is  a  standing  tale 
With  the  old  seamen,  that  a  woman  comes — 
Her  lower  parts  being  fishlike — in  the  wave  ; 
Singing  strange  songs  of  love,  that  so  inflame 
The  blinded  seamen,  that  they  steal  away 
And  join  her  in  the  waters  ;  and,  that  then, 
Having  her  victim,  she  is  seen  no  more. 

LEON.     And  is  it  deem'd,  the  men  thus  wildly  snared 
Become  a  prey  and  forfeit  life  at  once  ? 


ATALANTIS.  163 

MEN.     So  must  it  be  ;  and  yet,  there  is  a  tale 
That  they  do  wed  these  creatures  ;  which  have  power, 
So  to  convert  their  nature,  that  they  make, 
As  to  themselves,  the  sea  their  element ; 
And  have  a  life  renew'd,  though  at  the  risk 
And  grievous  peril  of  their  Christian  souls, 
Doom'd  thence  unto  perdition. 

LEON.  And  you  then 

Think  nothing  of  this  warning  ? 

MEN.  By  your  grace, 

Surely,  I  hold  it  the  wild  lustful  song 
Of  this  same  woman.     She  has  lost,  perchance, — 
Since  death  must  come  at  last  who  comes  to  all, — 
Her  late  companion.     Would  you  take  his  place  ? 
If  not,  wax  up  your  ears,  and  sleep  secure, 
There's  naught  to  fear,  and  sea-room  quite  enough. 

[Shock — the  ship  strikes. 
God,  and  thou  gracious  Mary,  what  is  that  ? 

[Ship  strikes  again* 
We're  in  our  certain  course — what  may  this  mean  ? 

LEON.     The  vessel  strikes — she  strikes  again  and  shivers, 
Through  all  her  frame,  as  if  convulsed  with  horror, 
She  felt  herself  the  pangs  we  soon  must  feel ! 
The  devil  speaks  truth,  for  once,  good  Mendez  Celer ! 

MEN.     Oh,  holy  Mary,  and  thou  gracious  shield 
Blessed  Saint  Anthony,  lend  us  now  your  aid  ; 
Speak  fairly  to  the  waters — see  us  through 
This  sad  deceit.     Below  there — hands  aloft  ! — 
Ho,  Juan  !  trim  the  sail, — out  with  the  lead — 
Helm  down,  Pedrillo — Hernan — luff  yet  more. 
Jesu  !     She  rides  again — we  yet  may  swim  ! 

[  Vessel  strikes  heavily  upon  the  rocks. 
It  is  all  over  !     To  your  prayers  at  once  ! 
There  is  no  longer  hope,  nor  chance  of  life, 


164  ATALANTIS. 

Unless  from  the  good  saints  and  Mary  Mother, 
"We  may  have  mercy  and  sweet  countenance  ! 

\The  master  takes  a  leaden  image  from  his  he'  and  prostrates 

himself  before  it.     Storm  rises, 
Gracious  Saint  Anthony,  for  fifty  years . 
We've  voyaged  in  company,  and  now, 
I  pray  thee,  in  this  strait,  that  thou  forsake  not 
Thy  ancient  comrade.     To  thy  use  I  vow — 
If  thou  wilt  man  our  yards,  and  trim  our  sails, 
And  lift  our  ragged  keel  from  off  these  rocks, — 
A  box  of  Cadiz  candles 

LEON.  Be  a  man  ! 

Rise,  Mendez,  to  the  peril  and  the  storm. 
Let  us  do  something  for  ourselves,  nor  ask 
The  smiles  of  heaven  upon  our  fears  alone. 
Shall  we  but  crouch  and  perish,  with  no  stroke 
Made  for  our  lives  !     For  shame,  sir — ply  your  men ; 
Nor  with  an  idle  prayer,  which  the  waves  mock 
And  the  winds  laugh  at,  show  our  feebleness. 
If  there  be  land  so  nigh,  as  by  our  glance, 
The  eye  may  seem  to  conjure,  we  may  try, 
The  little  we  can  do,  to  save  our  lives. 
The  boats — get  out  the  boats  ! 

MEX.  In  vain — in  vain  ; 

No  boat  may  live  in  such  a  sea  as  that. 
Look  at  this  surf,  that  chafes  like  a  wild  beast, 
And  ramps,  like  something  mad,  upon  the  rocks. 
This  is  the  strangest  chance  I  yet  have  known  : — 
By  the  chart  we  are  in  the  open  sea, 
And  here  we  meet  with  land,  where  land  is  none. 
A  moment  since,  and  the  whole  sea  was  calm, 
Now  boils  it  like  a  cauldron — and  the  winds, 
That  late  were  almost  breathless,  now  exclaim 
In  wrath,  and  yell  like  fiends  above  the  sea. 


A  T  ALAN  T  IS.  165 

Oh,  Mary  Mother,  in  this  strait  befriend  !— 
To  thee,  to  Jesu,  and  the  saints  alone, 
May  we  now  look  for  mercy  ! 

[Storm  increases.     Ship  strikes  with  increasing  violenc 

LEON.  So  we  perish  ! — 

The  ship  is  parting  !     We  must  try  the  boat, 
Whate'er  the  peril  from  the  raging  sea  ! 
Better,  thus  struggling  in  the  embrace  of  strife, 
To  meet  the  fatal  enemy,  than  thus, 
With  idly  folded  arms  and  shivering  fears 
That  mock  the  very  passion  in  our  prayer 
With  broken  utterance  most  unmeet  for  heaven, 
Await  him  feebly  here.     Ho  !  man  the  boat. 

ISABEL.     Leave  me  not,  brother,  for  a  moment  now  ! 
There's  not  a  pressing  danger,  or  I  do 
Greatly  mistake  the  courage  in  your  eye, 
That  hath  no  touch  of  terror  in  its  calm, 
And  looks  the  strength  of  safety. 

LEON.  Yet,  there  is, 

Dear  Isabel,  a  danger  of  the  worst, 
Now  pressing  on  our  lives  with  terrible  wrath, 
That  needs  the  soul's  best  fortitude  and  hope 
To  meet  with  manhood.     We  may  yet  escape, 
So,  take  you  heart     Look  not  with  such  an  eye, 
Or  I  may  fail  at  this  most  perilous  hour, 
And  sink  into  the  woman.     Be  all  firm, 
And  like  our  mother,  dearest, — nor  grow  weak, 
Wnen  I  do  tell  you  that  the  chances  gather 
Against  our  fondest  hope. 

ISABEL.  And  is  it  so  ? — 

And  you  and  I,  dear  Leon, — both  so  young, 
So  fond, — so  full  of  life's  best  promises, — 
Thus  sudden  cut  from  all — the  loved,  the  loving, — 
And  by  a  fate  so  terrible  ! 


166  ATALANTIS. 

LEON.  Still  hope  ! — 

Since  combating  the  fear  that  ushers  death, 
We  little  feel  his  shaft.     Whatever  haps, 
Be  firm,  and  cling  to  me.     Keep  close  at  hand, 
And,  with  the  mercy  of  God,  through  every  chance, 
Dear  sister,  I  devote  myself  to  thee. 

ISABEL.     I  know  thou  wilt ! — I  will  be  at  thy  side, 
Nor  trouble  thee  with  my  terrors. 

LEON.  Noble  girl ! 

My  safety  shall  be  thine  ; — and  if  I  fail, 
'Twill  somewhat  soothe  the  pang  of  that  sad  passage 
That  still  we  go  together.     We  have  lived, 
So  truly  in  one  another  from  the  first, 
And  known  no  sense  of  pleasure  not  inwrought, 
With  twin  affection  in  our  mutual  hearts, 
That  'twill  not  move  our  chiding  when  the  fate 
Strikes  both  in  one,  and  with  a  kindly  blow, 
Secures  'gainst  future  parting. 

ISABEL.  I'll  not  chide  ! 

I  will  be  firm, — and  yet  I  dread  the  rage 
And  rushing  of  the  waters.     How  they  roar, 
And  lash  themselves  to  madness  o'er  our  bows  !  . 
I  dread  me,  Leon,  that  my  senses  fail ! 
Mine  eyes  grow  blind — I  see  thee  not — Here,  here  ! 
My  brother,  leave  me  not. 

LEON.  I'm  here  with  thee  ! 

ISABEL.     Dost  hear  me  when  I  speak, — dost  hear  me,  brother  ? 
I  cannot  hear  myself.     My  voice  is  gone, 
Drown'd  in  that  horrible  coil  of  storm  and  billow 
That  fain  would  wrap  us  all.     That  crash  ! —  [Shrieks. 

LEON.  Hither ! — 

I  have  thee,  poor  unconscious  ! — child  of  sorrow, 
That  hast  no  farther  feeling  of  thy  woe  ! 
Make  way  there. 


AT  A  LAN  T  IS.  107 

MARINER.     The  boat  is  ready,  masters. 

[The  vessel  parts.     The  seamen  enter  the  boat.     Leon  lifts 

Isabel  into  it. 

MEN.     Delay  not  now  for  me — bear  off,  bear  off, — 
I  go  in  no  new  craft — my  log's  complete. 
This  is  my  ninetieth  voyage,  and  the  last, 
Though  not  the  longest  or  most  fortunate. 
I  cannot  leave  the  ship — it  is  our  creed — 
Till  she  leaves  me.     We've  sail'd  together  long — 
And  if  I  'scaped  the  present,  would  not  much 
Survive  her  reckoning.     Bid  me  well  at  home, 
And  say  the  manner  of  my  death  to  all. 
Tell  old  Bertiaz,  should  you  ever  make 
The  shore  I  never  more  shall  touch  again, 
(He  owns  the  vessel),  that  the  "  Arragon" 
(Too  fine  a  name  for  such  a  fate  as  this), 
Is  Arragon  no  longer.     You  may  say — 
'Twill  do  me  good  in  my  grave — I  died  in  her. 

[They  leave  her — she  goes  to  pieces  in  their  sight. 


SCENE    ll.—  TheBoat. 

MARINER.     There,  she  goes  down, — the  master  still  in  her  ; 
I  see  him  on  a  spar,  and — now  he  sinks. 
Pull  there  more  freely,  boys.     The  swell  she  makes 
May  trouble  us  greatly.     Fiercely,  all  at  once, 
Mark  you,  Don  Leon,  how  the  waters  leap, 
And  the  seas  whiten.      Here  are  ugly  rocks. 

LEON.     The  billows  rush  on  madly,  as  they  were 
Some  battling  armies.     These  are  cruel  waves, 
That,  fastening  on  our  sides,  still  clamber  high, 


168  AT  AL  ANT  IS. 

More  like  the  forms  of  demons,  dark  and  dread, 
With  fiend  malignity  and  bent  on  wrath, 
Than  billows  of  the  ocean.     We  shall  scarce—- 
Unless good  fortune  and  the  blessed  saints 
Look  kindly  on  us — overcome  the  space, 
Growing  as  we  o'erleap  it,  that,  between, 
Now  keeps  us  from  yon  islet,  which  I  mark, 
Dim,  in  the  distance,  o'er  the  swell  in  front. 
Pray  ye,  strike  full  your  oars  and  all  at  once, 
Cheerly  and  bold,  becoming  fearless  men  ; — 
And,  if  we  live,  God's  blessing  on  your  service, 
But  lack,  ye  shall  not,  your  reward  on  earth. 
My  arm  grows  weary  with  the  weight  upon  't 
Of  this  most  precious  burden  ;  while  a  cloud 
Like  a  thick  pitchy  wall,  right  in  our  way 
Rests  heavily  on  the  waters,  and  denies 
That  I  should  see  beyond.     Give  way,  like  men, 
And  enter  the  deep  darkness  unafraid. 

[The  boat  disappears. 


S  C  E  N  E    III.—  The  ocean  waste. 

ZEPHYR-SPIRIT.    Now,  terribly  through  the  waters  comes  the  form 
Of  that  fierce  savage  and  malignant  king, 
Onesimarch.     Behind  him  gathering  rush 
Clouds  of  his  brutal  followers,  clad  in  wrath, 
Howling  for  prey.     Beneath  their  vexing  spells 
The  deep  boils  like  a  whirlpool,  and  the  waves, 
So  lately  still  and  placid,  wrought  to  rage, 
Leap  up  about  the  poor  ill-fated  barque. 
Now  grappling  to  her  prow,  they  drag  her  down, 


ATALANTIS.  169 

The  billows  rushing  in  ;  and,  wrapt  in  each, 

Some  of  the  monster's  followers,  well  conceal'd, 

With  fierce  and  furious  might,  impel  her  down  ; — 

Now  mount  her  bending  sides,  now  strike  with  force 

Their  own,  against  her  weak  and  shrieking  ribs — 

Tear  up  her  planks,  and  rushing  through  the  space, 

Rend  her  broad  back,  and  o'er  the  flinty  rocks 

Drag  the  too  yielding  keel  until  it  parts. 

Onesimarch,  himself,  a  hungry  fiend, 

With  darker  powers  endow'd,  with  sulphur  arm'd, 

Hurls  a  perpetual  lightning,  which  distracts 

And  dazzles  the  weak  eye.     He  shapes  their  course, 

And  guides  the  tribute  legions  ;  working  new  joys 

From  out  the  wrongs  he  doth,  for  his  own  sense, 

And  for  that  potentest  of  all  the  fiends, 

By  whom  his  power  is  wrought.     And  now,  they  chant 

A  song  of  terror  in  the  drowning  ears 

Of  the  wild  seamen,  cutting  off  all  hope 

That  manhood  may  achieve  against  its  fate. 


SCENE    IV.—  The  same. 
Storm.     Flight  of  Sea-Demons,  singing. 


Fly!  flyl 

Through  the  perilous  sky, 
Spirits  of  terror  and  tumult  on  high  ! 
Even  as  we  go, 
Working  the  woe, 

Of  all  that  is  hatefully  happy  below ! 
Speed  !  our  mission,  fierce  and  fatal, 

Is  to  spoil  superior  things ; 
VOL.  L  8 


170  ATALANTIS. 

For,  at  birth,  our  planets  natal 

Crown' d  with  blight  our  demon  wings  I 
Oh  1  the  joy  to  rob  the  treasures, 

Hopes  of  soul  and  beauty  given, 
From  the  race  whose  purer  pleasures, 

Are  the  special  care  of  Heaven  ! 
Joy,  that  thus,  still  doom'd  to  sorrow, 

We  may  happier  fortunes  blight, 
And  from  woe  extremest  borrow, 

Still  the  power  that  yields  delight. 
To  the  terror,  fiercely  wending, 

Speed  we,  till  our  work  is  done, 
Still  destroying,  raging,  rending, 

Till  the  shadow  chokes  the  sun  ! 


II. 

Speed  !  for  the  meed 
Of  merciless  deed, 

Summons  us  fiercely  with  clamors  of  greed  ; 
"While  the  ship  glides 
Through  the  treacherous  tides, 

Break  down  her  bulwarks  and  rush  through  her  sides ! 
These  are  mortals,  wretched  creatures  ! 

Yet  from  doom  like  ours  set  free ; 
"Wrought  of  clay,  and  yet  with  features, 

Such  as  make  us  rage  to  see  ! 
Such  the  haughty  sovereign  presence, 

That  pursued  with  storm  and  flame  I 
From  our  homes  of  power  and  pleasaunce, 

Drove  us  forth  in  grief  and  shame  ! 
Him  we  dare  not  face  with  battle, 

Now,  as  then,  with  fearless  powers, 
But  his  race  of  God-mark'd  cattle, 

Yields  the  proper  spoil  for  ours. 
In  his  likeness  made,  they  languish, 

For  the  wings  he  hath  not  given  ; 
And,  in  trampling  on  their  anguish, 

"Wage  we  still  our  war  with  Heaven  I 


ATALANTIS.  171 


III. 

Why,  oh  1  why, 
Breathing  the  sky 

Orisons  still  should  they  offer  on  high  ; 
Why  should  they  pray, 
Creatures  of  clay, 

Whose  faith  ia  a  fable,  whose  life  is  a  day  1 
Mock  the  mortals  with  your  voices, 

Shouting  death  and  hate  and  hell ; 
Fill  their  ears  with  horrid  noises, 

Ring  for  every  soul  the  knell ! 
Tell  them,  while  the  ocean  smothers 

Life  and  hope,  that,  never  more, 
Shall  the  loved  ones,  wives  and  mothers, 

See  the  forms  so  dear  before  ! 
Show  them  Death  in  grimmest  aspect, 

Cold,  corruption,  worms,  and  night ; 
And  depict  the  penal  prospect 

Of  the  future  world  of  blight, 
Endless,  for  the  guilt -unshriven, 

Fetter'd  fast  by  tyrant  powers, 
With  no  hope  to  be  forgiven, 

And  a  doom  more  dread  than  ours  1 


IV. 

Lo  !  where  in  sight, 
Fierce  as  in  fight, 

Rising  from  ocean,  our  monarch  of  might ; 
With  the  storm  for  his  steed, 
He  is  here  at  our  need, 

The  dreadful  in  strife,  and  the  matchless  in  speed. 
Full  our  legions, — dread  battalions, 
Sweep  we  now  the  ocean  plain  ; 
Cower  the  golden  Spanish  galleons, 

Cower  and  sink  beneath  the  main  I 
Vain  the  skill  and  power  to  stay  us, 
Vain  the  prayers  that  hope  to  spell ; 


172  ATALANTIS. 

Hate,  alone,  may  soothe  or  sway  us, 

And  the  power  that  conquers  hell  1 
These  we  dread  not  in  our  mission, 

When  the  victim  wrought  of  clay, 
Guilty  grown,  in  his  condition, 

Yields  himself  beneath  our  sway. 
Then  he  forfeits  angel  keeping, 

Which  had  baffled  else  our  hate  ; 
And  the  doom  of  woe  and  weeping, 

Makes  him  subject  to  our  fate  ! 


CHORUS. 

From  the  regions  south,  and  the  regions  north, 

Mount  we,  and  speed  we,  and  hurry  we  forth  ; 

From  where  the  sun  fails,  in  the  putrid  gales, 

Launch  we  afloat  on  our  shadowy  sails  : 

Darkening  the  sky,  oh  !  how  we  fly, 

Spirits  of  tumult  and  terror' on  high  : 

The  whirlwind  we  fling  abroad  on  its  wing, 

And  the  hurricane  speeds  to  its  work,  as  we  sing  ! 

Lo  !  the  skies  how  they  stoop,  and  the  stars  how  they  droop, 

While  the  trailing  storms  follow  our  flight  in  a  troop ; 

As  downward  we  sweep,  the  black  billows  leap, 

To  welcome  our  flight,  with  a  roar  from  the  deep  ! 

We  are  here,  we  are  there  ;  in  the  ocean,  the  air, 

With  a  breath  that  is  death,  and  a  song  that's  despair  ! 

Ho !  for  the  master  !     The  sulphur  balls  go ! 

How  sweet  is  the  shriek  of  the  perishing  foe  I 

Ho  !  for  the  master  !     The  red  arrows  fly, 

And  burst  in  the  blackness  of  billow  and  sky  ! 

Pape  Sathanas  !     We  work  for  thee  well ! 

Aleppe  !*    There's  clucking  for  triumph  in  Hell ! 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  of  the  victims  ? — They  pray — 

Ho  1  ho !  but  how  vainly  ! — too  late  i'  the  day ! 

*  See  Dante,  Inferno,  Canto  vii  :— 

"  Pape  Satan,  pape  Satan  aleppe, 
Comincib  Pluto  colla  voce  chioccia." 


ATALANTIS.  173 

We  stifle  the  prayer,  in  the  breath — and  we  tear, 
The  last  hope  away  from  the  breast  of  despair ! 
Ho !  for  new  flights  and  new  victims, — Ho !     Ho ! 
With  the  tempest  for  wings,  and  the  lightning  we  go. 
Pape  Sathanas  !  we  work  for  thee  well ! 
Aleppe  !    There's  clucking  for  triumph  in  Hell  I 


SCENE    V.—  The  Boat. 

MARINER.     Master,  we  strive  in  vain. 

LEON.  We  can  but  die. 

MAR.     Why  toil  for  it  ? 

LEON.  As  one  who  strikes  Ms  foe, 

Though  conscious  that  he  battles  without  hope, 
And  dies  in  the  brave  conflict. — Ha !  she  stirs. 

ISABEL,  [recovering.]     Horrible  sounds  are  rushing  through 

ears, 

More  like  the  cries  of  demons,  mad  for  blood, 
Than  the  hoarse  billows  and  the  roaring  winds. 
They  dart  into  my  brain,  and  seem  to  shout, 
Triumphant,  oh,  my  brother,  o'er  our  fate ; — 
Speak  of  the  sorrow  in  our  father's  halls, 
That,  with  an  anguish,  far  too  great  for  speech, 
Grows  dumb  and  scorns  expression.     Could  we  live — 
But  live  to  see  him  once  ! — oh,  bear  me  up  ; — 
Desert  me  not,  dear  Leon,  but  entwine, 
Closely,  thy  arm  around  ;  nor  let  these  waves, 
That  seem  impatient  of  their  midnight  feast, 
Suck  me  into  their  black  and  ravenous  jaws. 

LEON.     Doubt  me  not,  Isabel,  in  this  dark  hour ! 
Think'st  thou  I  could  desert  thee,  precious  sweetness, 
To  whose  frail  nature  and  too  delicate  youth 
Sweet  elements  should  minister  with  love, 


174:  ATALANTIS. 

Not  hunt  with  hate.     I  have  thee  in  my  arms  ; 
Will  hold  thee,  while  they  have  their  hold  in  life, 
And  I  have  thought  and  sense  to  will  the  struggle 
That  wards  the  final  danger  from  thy  breast. 
But,  cling  to  me,  my  sister. 

ISABEL.  Will  I  not  ? 

Why  should  we  think  of  death  ? 

MAR.  It  comes  !     It  comes  ! 

[The  boat  strikes  and  goes  to  pieces. 

LEON.     Isabel, — sister  ! 

ISABEL,  [faintly  afar  op.]     Here,  Leon,  here  ! 

LEON.  Oh,  Jesu !  lost ! 

[Scene  closes. 


SCENE    VI. —  The  Ocean  waste. 

ZEPHYR-SPIRIT.     'Tis  done  !     The  strife  is  over.     Hope  is  none  ! 
These  cruel  demons  triumph,  with  a  rage 
That  mocks  at  mortal  strength.     Prone  to  the  deep, 
I  watch'd  that  hungry  slave,  Calemmia,  seize, 
Conceal'd  in  a  dense  billow,  on  the  prow ; 
And,  all  despite  the  seaman's  sturdy  stroke, 
The  helmsman's  firm  direction,  and  the  cheer 
Of  that  strong  human  impulse,  which  did  grow, 
Upon  the  sight  of  land,  into  a  hope, 
Drag  her  among  the  sharp  rocks,  while  the  surfs 
Beat  her  to  pieces.     She  is  scatter'd  far — 
A  spar  floats  on  the  wave — a  single  oar, 
Cast  high  among  the  sands,  alone  has  reach'd 
The  mocking  shores  that  wreck'd  them.     Yet,  not  so  ! — 
I  mark  a  floating  form  that  struggles  still, 
With  a  most  human  love  of  life,  afar. 
Him  may  I  succor,  and,  with  safety  now  ; — 


ATALANTIS.  175 


The  legions  of  Onesimarcli,  being  done 
Their  toil  of  terror,  have,  for  newer  spoils, 
Wrapt  in  a  gathering  cloud,  departed  hence, 
Leaving  all  calm  again.     Curl'd  in  this  wave, 
I  will  beneath  him  glide,  and  bear  him  up  ; 
Till,  on  the  shore,  beyond  the  ocean's  swell, 
He  rests  in  safety.     I  can  do  no  more — 
Since,  in  gross  contact  with  the  heavy  earth, 
I  lose  the  subtle  power  that  makes  my  gift, 
And  forfeit,  of  the  light  ethereal  nature, 
The  buoyant  spirit  that  supplies  its  wing. 


176  ATALANTIS. 


ACT    III.  — SCENE    I. 

The  islet  of  Onesimarchus* 

Atalantis,  Nea. 

ATAL.     This  islet  hath  no  quality  of  joy, 
Fair  to  the  sight,  or  fragrant  to  the  sense, — 
No  beauty  that  upon  its  surface  glows, 
No  treasure  that  within  its  bosom  sleeps  ; — 
It  is  the  foul'st  deception — all  is  gross, 
And  tainted  with  that  sinborn  leprousness 
That  marks  the  soul  who  will'd  it  into  birth, 
And  raised  its  treacherous  rocks  along  the  deep. 
No  innocent  beast  hath  dwelling  in  this  clime, 
No  valley  blooms  with  verdure.     Not  a  flower 
Gems  the  bleak  sands,  that,  barrenly  spread  out, 
Pain  the  unsatisfied  and  wandering  eye, 
That,  seeing  naught  else,  grows  weary.     Not  a  bird,, 
But,  as  he  fli«s  above,  subdues  his  voice, 
And,  panting  in  his  silence,  quickens  his  wing, 
Having  a  nameless  terror.     The  foul  taint 
That  poisons  all  things  in  this  tyrant's  sway, 
Takes  from  them  all  their  virtue.     Not  a  shrub 
Breathes  fragrance  to  the  breeze,  whose  whispered  plaint 
Would  woo  it  still  to  fondness.     Not  an  air 
Enters  these  bounds,  but  flags  and  settles  down 
Clumsy  and  wingless  ;  and  the  very  stars 
Do  seem  to  leave  their  places  in  the  heavensy 
Looking  down  on  it.     Even  we,  who  are 
Of  a  tenacious  temper,  yielding  naught, — 


ATALANTIS.  177 


If  that  our  hearts  be  pure  and  souls  be  firm 

To  the  capricious  influence, — we  lose 

Something  of  that  refined  and  subtler  sense, 

Which  gives  us  power  to  meet  and  match  the  sway 

Of  his  low  cunning  and  detested  art. 

How  heavy  is  this  silence  !     What  a  spell 

Comes  with  the  sullen  muttering  of  the  winds, 

Now  sweeping  from  the  waters  ;  and,  how  sad 

Are  the  faint  murmurs  of  yon  moaning  sea, 

In  the  far  distance  chiding,  as  in  grief, 

For  some  new  stroke  of  sorrow  !     All  things  yield- — 

So  it  would  seem — a  something  to  the  spell, 

That  makes  his  power,  and  keeps  us  captive  here ; 

Wrapping  us  in  a  circle,  not  to  move, 

Or  strive,  lest  it  undoes  us.     The  shrill  scream 

Of  one  poor  gull,  that,  o'er  the  whiten'd  foam, 

Hung  with  gray  wing  suspended,  breaks  no  more 

Fitfully  on  the  ear  ; — and  all  of  life 

Seems  resolute  to  pay  its  offering  now 

To  that  dread  silence,  which,  in  human  sense, 

Makes  up  the  all  of  death  ! 

NEA.  Even  as  thou  say'st ! — 

'Tis  a  sad  spot,  fair  mistress  ;  sad  for  us, 
That  have  been  wont,  in  finer  element, 
To  drink  the  nurture  of  a  better  lot. 
Ah  i  how  unlike  the  sweet  life  of  the  light, 
Blessing  the  fair  dominion  thou  hast  lost ; — 
Lost  for  a  season  only,-^-yet  too  long, 
Since  such  a  dwelling  as  we  find  perforce, 
Subdues  the  heart  to  sorrows  not  its  own, 
Which  still  must  bide  in  memory.     I  feel 
How  dreary  is  the  labor  of  restraint, 
This  watching,  waiting, — when  my  wonted  use, 
Would  have  me  winging  an  unlicensed  flight, 

8* 


178  ATALANTIS. 

Now  in  the  embracing  air,  now  through  the  deeps, 
Disparting  their  white  billows  night  and  morn, 
With  no  more  pause  than  to  adjust  my  plumes, 
Ruffled  by  zephyrs  ;  then,  with  fresh  device, 
Soaring  in  wilder  progress, — sea  and  sky, 
Our  ample  field,  and  the  delighted  tribes, 
Their  habitants,  come  forth  to  share  the  chase. 

ATAL.     And  lack'st  thou  now  all  wonted  qualities — 
Thy  dance,  thy  song,  whose  melodies  can  make 
The  rnad  seas  sleep  when  wildest,  while  the  winds 
Fold  up  their  cloudy  vans  to  hear  thy  lay  ? 
Hast  thou  no  strain  to  fit  these  drowsy  hours 
With  wings  of  light  and  fragrance,  while  the  thought 
Grows  wanton  and  forgetful  of  the  grief 
That  burden'd  it  with  gloom  ?     Methinks,  my  girl, 
'Twere  in  thy  happy  spells  of  verse  to  find 
Some  carol  of  our  own  domain,  to  take 
The  impatient  soul,  and  in  delicious  dews 
Steep  the  fine  sense  to  sweet  forgetfulness. 
Sing  me  some  ditty  from  our  Mergevan, 
While  every  flower,  in  gardens  of  the  past, 
Our  hands  have  ever  gather'd,  the  young  page, 
Whose  name  is  Memory,  faithful  to  his  task, 
Shall  bring  anew  to  joy  us  in  our  need. 
Give  me  the  song  the  Flower-Spirit  once  framed, 
When  through  our  gardens,  far  beneath  the  sea, 
Wall'd  in  by  wildest  waters,  we  pursued, 
For  the  first  time,  the  summer  festival. 

SONG    OF   THE    FLOWER-SPIRIT, 
i. 

I  am  the  spirit  that  sleeps  in  the  flower, 
Mine  is  the  music  of  fragrance  that  flies, 


ATALANTIS.  17"9 


When  silence  and  moonlight  are  dressing  each  bower 
That  blooms  in  the  favor  of  tropical  skies  : 

I  win  the  bird  with  new  melody  glowing, 

To  rise  with  the  zephyr,  and  warble  his  strain  ; 

And  mine  is  the  odor,  in  turn,  that  bestowing, 
The  minstrel  is  paid  for  his  music  again. 


II. 

Sorrow  comes  never  where  I  am  abiding, 

The  tempests  are  strangers,  and  far  from  us  rove ; 
I  woo  the  zephyrs  too  hurriedly  riding, 

And  gently  they  linger  and  fill  us  with  love. 
They  pause,  and  we  glow  in  their  winning  embraces ; 

They  drink  our  warm  breath,  rich  with  odor  and  song ; 
Then  hurry  away  to  their  desolate  places, 

And  look  for  us  hourly,  and  mourn  for  us  long. 


III. 

We  were  born  of  the  dews,  and  our  destiny  found  us, 

Embraced  by  a  sunbeam,  all  budding  and  bright ; 
On  its  wing,  came  from  heaven  the  glory  that  crown'd  us, 

And  the  odor  that  makes  us  a  living  delight. 
And  when  the  warm  blessings  of  summer  stream  on  us, 

Our  winglets  of  silk  we  unfold  to  the  air ; 
Leaping  upward  in  joy  to  the  spirit  that  won  us, 

And  made  us  the  tenants  of  regions  so  fair. 

ATAL.     The  ocean  hath  no  calm  like  what  is  here — 
And,  if  the  waters  might  unfold  to  us, 
There  hath  been  fearful  strife  upon  their  waves. 
Here  come  its  tokens.     These  are  broken  spars 
From  some  tall  ship,  that  lately  sped  along, 
As  oft-times  I  have  seen  them,  with  a  grace 
And  majesty  becoming  in  a  queen 
Ruling  a  thousand  seas.     It  is  a  game 
Onesimarch  delights  in,  to  destroy 


180  YXTIS, 

The  goodly  creatures  that  do  dwell  in  them — 
Shaped  like  ourselves,  though  little  taught  to  cope 
In  knowledge  with  ourselves.     Inferior  things 
Of  lower  grade,  who,  when  we  have  become 
The  tenants  and  possessors  of  a  realm 
Now  far  beyond  our  state,  shall  rise  to  ours, 
As  we  enjoy  it  now.     But  what  is  here, 
Grasping  a  shaft,  and  lifelessly  spread  out  ? 

[Seeing  the  body  of  Leon. 

NEA.     One  of  the  creatures  of  that  goodly  barque, — - 
Perchance,  the  only  one  of  many  men, 
That,  from  their  distant  homes>  went  forth  in  her, 
And  here  have  perish'd. 

ATAL.  There  is  life  in  him  ; — 

His  bosom  swells,  methinks,  beneath  my  hand, — 
"With  fitful  pulse — most  faint — now  here — now  gone  I 
Alas !  I  fear  it  may  not  come  again. 
How  very  young  he  is — how  beautiful  I — • 
Made  with  a  matchless  sense  of  what  is  true 
In  manly  grace  and  mortal  elegance ; 
And  features,  rounded  in  as  soft  a  mould 
As  our  own,  Nea. 

NEA.  His  eye  unfolds. 

ATAL.  Ah ! 

Stand  aside,  girl,  and  let  me  look  on  him. 
I  see  not  that  he  wakes. 

NEA.  But  now  he  did. 

ATAL.     Alas !  he  sleeps  in  death  !     How  pitiful 
That  one  so  young,  and  princely  in  his  port, 
Should  fall  so  soon  a  victim.     He  hath  been, 
I  doubt  not,  a  great  noble  with  his  people. 
How  should  it  be  that  such  a  form  as  this, 
So  lovely  and  commanding  in  its  aspect, 
Should  rank  below  the  people  of  our  race  ? 


ATALANTIS.  181 

Methinks  he  is  a  creature,  that,  in  life, 
Might  stand  compared  with  any  of  our  chiefs. 

NEA.     At  least,  in  outward  seeming. 

ATAL.  And  this  speaks, — 

Where  still  the  brow  is  lofty,  and  the  form 
Familiar,  in  erect  and  graceful  carriage, — 
For  that  which  guides  within. 

NEA.  He  looks  well ; — 

Yet  may  he  be  a  thing  of  seeming  only, 
Wanting  in  all  that  higher  sense  of  soul,' 
Which  makes  the  virtue  of  true  excellence. 

ATAL.     Oh  !  I  am  sure  there  is  no  want  in  him ; 
The  spirit  must  be  true,  the  sense  supreme, 
The  soul  as  far  ascending,  strong  and  bright, 
As  is  the  form  they  do  inhabit  in. 
Breathe  on  him,  Nea ;  fan  him  with  thy  wing 
And  rouse  him,  if  thou  canst.     Oh  !  could  I  bring 
The  life  into  his  cheek.     Stay,  yet  awhile ; — 
Now,  while  his  senses  sleep,  I'll  place  my  lip 
Upon  his  own — it  is  so  beautiful ! 
Such  lips  should  give  forth  music — such  a  sweet 
Should  have  been  got  in  heaven, — the  produce  there, 
Of  never-blighted  gardens.  [Kisses  kin 

LEON,  [sfarte.]     Cling  to  me — 
Am  I  not  with  thee  now,  my  Isabel !  [Swoons  again. 

ATAL.     Oh,  gentle  sounds — how  sweetly  did  they  fall, 
In  broken  murmurs,  like  a  melody, 
From  lips,  that  waiting  long  on  loving  hearts, 
Had  learn'd  to  murmur  like  them.     Wake  again, 
Sweet  stranger !     If  my  lips  have  wrought  this  spell, 
And  won  thee  back  to  life,  though  but  to  sigh, 
And  sleep  again  in  death, — they  shall,  once  more, 
Wake  and  restore  thee, 

NEA.  You  arouse  him  not. 


182  AT  AL  ANT  IS. 

ATAL.     Alas  !  should  life's  string,  overstrain'd,  be  crack'd, 
No  more  to  be  reknit,  I  forfeit  peace 
Forever, — never  more  to  hope  for  joy 
In  any  life  that  follows. 

NEA.  Oh  !  my  mistress, 

This  passion  of  grief — 

ATAL.  Nea,  now  at  last, 

I  feel  that  I  do  love !     The  sudden  fire 
Kindles  at  last,  where  never  yet  before 
Its  spark  found  nurture.     If  it  be  in  vain ! — 
I,  that  had  scorn'd  the  suppliant  before, 
I  too,  must  be  the  suppliant  for  a  love 
That's  born  without  a  hope.     The  lesson  conies 
Too  late,  and  I  have  but  to  weep  o'er  dreams 
That  have  no  waking  promise  for  the  heart, 
And  leave  it  but  to  tears.     Alas  !  Alas  ! 

[Throws  herself  upon  Leon. 

NBA.     Oh  !  yield  not  thus,  my  mistress,  to  a  passion 
That  never  can  be  blest.     The  best  of  love 
Still  teaches  sorrow  as  his  natural  gift, 
More  sure  than  precious. 

ATAL.  Know  you  aught  of  Love  ? 

NBA.     As  of  a  power  that's  best  esteemed  in  fancy, 
In  which  he  more  abides  than  in  the  heart. 
Love's  but  an  artful  tyrant.     He  first  wins 
By  the  most  servile  flatteries.     He  can  stoop 
The  better  to  ascend ;  and  pliant  grows, 
When  most  the  secret  purpose  in  his  soul, 
Makes  him  unyielding.     Pleasant  is  his  prayer ; — 
He  will  discourse  you  in  the  dove's  own  note, 
Cooing  and  plaining,  with  such  murmur'd  sweets, 
That  pity  learns  to  take  the  place  of  doubt, 
And  paves  the  way  for  trust.     But,  wait  awhile, 
And  soon  his  habit  changes.     He  grows  apt, — 


ATALANTIS.  183 

Learns  the  new  lesson  his  condition  makes, 
As  readily  as  the  old ;  and,  sure  of  power, 
Firm,  with  free  footing  walks,  where  late  he  crept. 
Then,  see  you  heed  the  master ; — who  will  now 
Claim,  for  his  right,  that  which  he  lately  sued, 
As  the  poor  meed  of  charity ;  and  thus 
Step  by  step  upward,  with  insidious  art, 
And  cunning  most  unequall'd,  doth  he  rise, 
Until  you  find  your  neck  beneath  his  foot, 
And  you  become  his  slave,  who  once  was  yours. 

ATAL.     Oh  !  terrible, — where  heard  you  this  of  Love  ? 

NBA.     From  many  teachers. 

ATAL.  Did  they  know  him  well  ? 

They  slander  him,  methinks. 

NBA.  They  suffer'd  first ! 

Our  minstrels  note  him  thus  ! — Our  maidens,  taught 
By  many  a  hapless  lesson,  thus  describe 
His  art  and  empire.     They  do  further  tell, 
Beyond  his  tyrant  habits,  that  his  sweets 
Are  few  and  failing.     Painful,  do  they  say, 
Are  even  the  creature's  pleasures,  since  they  wake 
Such  doubts  and  dread  misgiving  for  their  loss, 
As  even  their  joys  can't  equal.     The  sick  soul, 
That  grieves  with  Love's  delusions,  evermore  dreams 
Dreading  its  losses.     It  forever  makes 
A  sombre  cloud  to  gather  in  the  sky, 
And  glooms  the  spirit.     Looking  far  beyond 
The  glory  in  its  gaze,  it  sadly  sees 
Countless  privations,  and  far-coming  storms, 
Shrinking  from  what  it  conjures.     Let  them  say 
Green  youth  and  greener  maidens,  as  they  may, 
Of  Love  and  of  his  raptures : — for  my  part, 
I  hold  him  a  disease — a  very  ache, 
And  ague-fever,  sore  and  troublesome ; 


18i  ATALANTIS. 

Apt  caller  forth  of  tears,  and  wails,  and  plaints, 
And  then  of  colds,  and  heats,  and  fantasies — 
Realities  most  mournful,  and,  forsooth, 
Imaginings,  whose  strange  complexions  be 
Not  a  whit  kinder.     Love's  a  sorry  slave, 
And  a  sad  master.     As  a  slave,  he  steals 
The  jewel  of  our  nature,  and  its  lights, — 
The  heart  and  its  affections ; — which,  having  got, 
He  straight  assumes  the  master  : — they,  in  turn, 
Being  his  willing  instruments  and  doom'd, 
When  that  the  tyrant  of  his  play  grows  sick; 
To  be  the  creature's  victims  at  the  last. 

ATAL.     I  cannot  think  this  truly  said  of  Love ! — 
The  minstrels  do  belie  him,  much,  methinks, 
For  envy  of  his  conquests ;  and,  the  maids — 
They  only  do  complain,  whom  he  doth  slight. 
They  never  knew  his  nature.     They,  perchance — 
Since  what  is  winning  still  hath  counterfeits — 
Have  seen  some  subtle  semblance  of  his  form, 
His  true  spirit  all  being  wanting ;  and  were  made, 
Haply,  the  victims  of  some  wanton  art, 
That  hath  betray'd  them.     It  were  wisdom  poor, 
And  a  most  sad  philosophy,  to  scorn 
The  blessing,  as  in  nature's  exigence, 
It  might  grow  forfeit.     Better,  with  this  rule, 
Not  live,  since  in  the  end  we  all  must  die. 
Though  there  be  doubts  that  love  may  yet  be  lost, 
Still  let  me  love ; — the  very  doubt  but  shows 
The  worth  of  the  possession.     Not  for  me 
The  sway  of  kingdoms  only.     In  my  heart 
There  still  hath  been  a  void — a  vacant  place, 
That  ever  seem'd  to  crave  some  image  there, 
Set  up  for  worship.     Till  this  happy  hour, 
The  shrine  hath  been  unoccupied  and  cold ; 


ATALANTIS.  185 

Now  doth  the  warmth  of  a  divinity 
Suffuse  the  reluctant  nature,  and  I  glow 
In  the  superior  consciousness  of  hopes 
That  fill  me  with  devotion.     Here  is  one 
Might  teach  me  wherefore  this. 

NEA.  He  breathes  again  ; 

There's  life  within  him  yet. — His  lips,  they  part 
In  murmurs  : — he  will  live.     Shall  we  now  leave  him  ? 

ATAL.     Leave  him,  dost  thou  ask  ?  alas !  my  Nea, 
I  cannot  if  I  would.     His  image  takes 
Possession  of  the  waste  place  in  my  soul, 
And  fills  me  with  himself.     Whether  I  go, 
Or  stay, — the  fates  forbid  that  we  should  part ; — 
And  known,  perchance,  and  loved  too  late,  he  still 
Hath  grown  to  such  a  presence  in  my  thought, 
That,  though  I  lose  him  in  the  hour  that  finds, 
I  lose  him  not  from  love.     Now,  let  us  call 
The  life  into  his  cheek.     Some  water  bring, 
Scoop'd  out  from  yonder  fountain  near  the  sea. 
There,  fan  him  with  thy  pinions.     See,  his  lips, — 
Again  they  part,  how  sweetly ! — and  again, 
I  stoop  to  press  them  with  my  own  that  burn 
With  a  strange  fervor  never  felt  before. 
He  wakes ! — Ah  me,  he  wakes !     His  eyes  unclose 
With  a  dim  beauty.     As  they  open,  mine 
Sink  to  the  sands.     I  feel  his.  glances  now, 
Stealing  and  searching  through  my  throbbing  heart, 
Until  it  hath  no  secret.     Doth  he  speak  I 
What  says  he,  my  sweet  Nea  ? 

LEON,  [struggling  to  his  feet^\         Nay, — no  more  ! — 
Ah  !  sister,  is  it  thou  ?     That  terrible  thought 
That  thou  wert  swallow'd  in  the  ravenous  sea, 
And  the  waves  over  thee !     I  saw  thee  sink — 
Beheld  thy  outstretch'd  arms — heard  thy  wild  cry 


186  ATALANTIS. 

For  succor,  that  I  strove  in  vain  to  give, — 

A.nd,  struggling  in  the  surf,  'gainst  cruel  hands, 

That  kept  me  from  thee  in  the  fearful  hour, 

I  yielded  thee  as  lost. — I  have  thee  now — 

We  shall  not  part  again.  [Embracing  Atalantis. 

ATAL.  Ah ! — 

LEON,  [discovering  her.]  Who  art  thou.? 

Where  is  my  sister — give  her  to  my  arms ; 
Why  dost  thou  keep  her  from  me  when  I  call  ? 

ATAL.     Oh  1  look  not  thus  upon  me,  gentle  youth : 
I  have  not  done  thee  wrong. 
.  LEON.  My  sister  ? 

ATAL.  She — 

I  know  not. — 

LEON.  Alas !  alas !  for  me  ! — I  am  alone. 

ATAL.     Oh !  not  alone,  for  though  we  know  not  her, 
The  sister  thou  hast  lost,  we'll  seek  for  her, 
And  strive  to  bring  her  to  thy  love  again. 
We  too  will  love  thee,  if  thou'lt  suffer  us, 
And.  claim  thy  love  in  turn. 

LEON.  Where  am  I  then  if 

Oh !  tell  me,  noble  lady,  tell  me  true, 
What  is  the  shore  we  stand  on — where  the  ship 
That  bore  us — the  old  master,  and  the  men, — 
And  over  all  of  these,  the  precious  maid, 
My  sister,  whom  I  swore  to  save  from  harm, 
While  strength  was  in  my  arms  to  strive  for  her. 
Alas !  that  I  am  here,  with  life  and  strength, 
And  she — thou  look'st  as  thou  hadst  love  and  truth, — 
Spare  me  these  pangs — withhold  her  not  from  me, — 
I  shall  not  sink  into  an  agony, 
Joy-troubled  at  her  sight.     I'm  strong  to  bear 
This  happiness,  if  thou  hast  it  to  bestow, 
And  take  my  blessing  for  it.     Give  her  me  1 


ATALANTIS.  1ST 

ATAL.     Alas !  thou  plead'st  to  me,  dear  youth,  in  vain ; 
I  know  not  of  the  gentle  maid  you  seek. 
Thou  only,  of  the  creatures  of  the  ship, 
Hast  found  the  refuge  of  the  shore. 

LEON.  She's  gone, — 

And  I  survive  her !     How  can  I  survive  ? 
With  what  a  terror  she  entreated  me, 
Never  to  leave  her ;  and  I  pledged  my  soul, 
If  I  had  power  to  save,  she  should  not  sink, 
Or  I  should  share  her  fate.     My  Isabel ! 
I  could  not  save,  and  cannot  now  survive ; — 
I  come  to  thee, — I  come !  [Rushes  towards  the  sea. 

ATAL.  Forbear!  Forbear! 

Oh  !  be  not  thus  the  murderer  of  thyself, 
When  heaven's  own  voice  hath  order'd  thee  to  live. 
For  my  sake  as  for  thine !     I  kneel  to  thee. 
Do  not  this  wrong  unto  thyself,  I  pray, 
Nor  to  the  memory  of  the  maid  thou  griev'st, 
Who,  if  she  loved  thee,  never  could  be  blest, 
At  this,  thy  woeful  sacrifice.     Oh  !  hear ! 
Let  me  implore.     Thy  sister  yet  may  live, 
Cast  on  some  other  isle,  as  thou  on  this. 
We'll  seek  her  hence  together,  with  a  hope 
That  we  may  find  her  on  the  yellow  sands, 
And  win  her  back  to  life. 

LEON.  Oh  !  sweet  thy  words ! 

I  will  believe  thee,  lady,  with  a  hope 
That  comes  on  golden  pinions ;  for  thine  eye 
Tells  of  a  true  sense  prompting  thee  to  speak, 
In  mercy,  with  a  blessing  won  from  truth ; 
While  in  thy  voice  a  delicate  music  lies, 
Spelling  all  sympathies  that  fill  the  heart. 
Say,  who  art  thou  ? 

ATAL.  My  name  is  Atalantis. 


188  ATALANTIS. 

I  am  a  Princess  of  the  ocean  waste, 

But  now  a  prisoner  on  this  cruel  isle, 

Which,  raised  by  magic  from  the  hidden  deep, 

Wreck'd  thee  and  fetters  me.     I  have  the  sway 

Of  a  large  ocean  empire  which,  in  sight, 

Extends  beyond  the  sight,  and  far  beneath 

In  winding  ways  and  valleys  of  the  sea. 

I  keep  no  state,  but,  as  a  captive,  pine 

In  sight  of  my  own  kingdom,  in  the  power 

Of  a  dread  monarch  of  the  demon  race, 

A  mighty  potentate  who  keeps  me  here, 

Seeking  my  love. 

LEON.  How  fell  you  in  his  power  ? 

ATAL.     'Twere  a  long  speech  to  tell  you  of  our  realms, 
The  sway  that's  mine  and  his  respectively, 
And  the  slight  space  betwixt  us ;  or  to  dwell 
On  the  opposing  powers  we  each  possess : 
It  is  enough,  sweet  youth,  that  yesterrnorn, 
I  and  this  maiden,  o'er  the  quiet  sea, 
Idly  disporting  in  our  innocence, 
Pass'd  from  our  own  dominions  into  his ; 
When,  straightway  he, — being  ever  on  the  watch, 
And  all  unmatch'd  for  cunning — raised  this  isle, 
At  once,  beneath  us.     In  this  sudden  strait, 
Frighted,  I  cast  aside  my  magic  wand, 
Without  which,  I  am  nothing ;  and,  with  joy, 
Knowing  its  powers,  this  monster  seized  it  then, 
And  keeps  me  now  his  captive,  close  fenced  in 
By  thickest  spells,  which,  circling  all  this  isle, 
And  having  with  our  fine  sense  deadly  hate, 
We  may  not  pass,  unless  he  wills  it  so, 
Or  I  regain  my  wand.     Could  that  be  done, 
Its  power  is  such  that  I  could  sink  this  isle, 


ATALANTIS.  189 


And,  with  one  stroke  in  air,  undo  the  spells 
Of  his  foul-brew'd  enchantment. 

LEON.  It  is  strange  1 

Methinks  I  wander  in  the  Arabian  tale, 
And  wear  the  enchanted  ring. — This  demon  king — 
Where  is  his  castle  where  he  harbors  now  ? 
I  would  behold  him,  and  do  battle  for  you. 
I  am  a  knight  of  Spain,  well  known  in  arms, 
And  wear  the  honors  of  the  noblest  courts, 
Shining  in  Christendie. 

ATAL.  The  arms  you  wield, 

In  fight  with  such  as  he,  would  nothing  serve : 
He  deals  in  subtlest  magic,  and  receives 
Spells  from  gigantic  spirits.     'Twas  his  power 
Aroused  the  storm  that  overthrew  your  bark ; 
And  now,  on  like  employment  bent,  he  speeds 
Afar  upon  the  ocean,  with  a  host 
Of  most  malignant  followers  in  his  train, 
Rank  for  destruction.     Could  I  get  my  wand, 
In  which  a  power  of  mightiest  strength  abides, 
I'd  battle  him  myself,  and  drive  him  back, 
And  whelm  the  barren  isle  which  keeps  us  now ! 
Nay,  more  than  this, — if  that  thy  sister  sleeps 
Beneath  the  waters, — though  I  may  not  win 
Her  spirit  back  to  life — with  that  same  wand, 
We  both  may  penetrate  the  tumbling  waves, 
Without  or  hurt  or  harm, — with  vision  free, 
To  find  her  gentle  beauties  where  they  rest 
On  quiet  beds  of  flowers  beneath  the  deep. 
There,  with  our  magic  art  may  we  enwrap 
Her  fragile  beauty  in  protecting  spells, 
That  still  her  eyes  shall  shine  as  when  in  life, 
Her  cheeks  still  glow  with  love's  own  red, — her  lips, 
Though  they  no  more  with  many  a  tone  of  joy, 


190  ATALANTIS. 

Made  soft  by  feeling,  whisper  in  your  ears, — 
Still  look  the  sweetness  they  have  ever  worn, 
Keeping  the  wonted  freshness  that  they  knew, — 
When  first  they  grew  to  thine.     This  shall  we  do, 
And  more,  that  nothing  that  thy  sense  may  seek 
Shall  lack  to  make  her  lovely. 

LEON.  Gentle  Queen, 

If  this  be  so, — do  with  me  as  thou  wilt, — 
I  am  thy  slave, — thy  slave ! 

ATAL.  Rather  I  thine ! 

If  thou  wilt  love  me,  this  will  I  perform  ; 
Nay,  though  thou  love  me  not,  I  still  will  do  it, 
For  love  I  have  for  thee. 

NEA,  [aside.]  No  more  a  Queen ! 

How  doth  she  yield  herself  unto  this  power, 
Forgetting  her  dominion. 

LEON.  Gentle  Princess, 

Shall  we  not  get  possession  of  this  wand  ? 
Methinks  that  I  could  do  't.     But  let  me  hear  ; 
Teach  me  the  way ! — I  shall  not  fear  to  meet 
This  monster,  though  with  magic  panoplied 
And  all  foul  arts.     Trust  then  the  toil  with  me, 
I  am  a  soldier  of  the  holy  cross, 
And  do  defy  the  fiend  and  all  his  works. 

ATAL.     'Tis  a  brave  spirit,  but  here  can  little  do, 
Save  to  adventure. — This,  indeed,  is  much ! — 
Magic  must  baffle  magic.     'Tis  for  thee, 
Still  to  procure  this  wand,  which  thou  canst  win, 
When  I  have  arm'd  thee  with  some  little  power  ; 
Thou  being  of  earthly  essence,  with  no  fear 
From  contact  with  the  all-infectious  spell 
Girdling  the  island  round.     Within  yon  rock, 
That  hangs  precipitous  above  the  deep — 
That  should  be  far  beneath  it — by  him  raised, 


ATALANTIS.  19.1 

With  sudden  conjuration,  at  a  word — 

Seal'd  in  with  spells,  and  in  a  curious  vase, 

Itself  a  spell,  the  treasure  lies  enshrined. 

These  charms,  to  me,  were  naught,  could  I  but  reach 

The  chambers  where  they  lie ;  for,  with  this  ring, 

Which  now  upon  thy  hand  I  place  from  mine, 

I  may  command  all  seals,  and  bid  them  break. 

Onesimarch  knows  this,  and  trusts  them  not ; 

But  placing  an  earthborn  taint  upon  the  air, 

He  doth  restrain  my  footstep. 

LEON.  Let  me  go — 

I  will  achieve  the  adventure,  or  will  die. 

ATAL.     Not  yet — it  were  in  vain  that  you  would  pass, 
With  your  enfeebled  strength,  the  threatening  gulfs 
Of  leaping  waters,  that,  between  this  isle, 
And  the  high  rocks  you  aim  at,  spread  themselves. 
We  must  seek  other  aid — and,  what  are  these, 
Auspiciously,  that  gather  on  the  sands, 
In  the  fine  haze  of  moonlight  ? 

NEA.  Fairy  tribes, 

That,  sporting  in  the  moonbeams,  saw  below 
This  new  creation  of  Onesimarch, 
And  straight  came  down,  still  glad  in  what  is  new, 
To  keep  their  revels  on  it. 

LEON,  \aside.~]  Wonders  grow, 

Fruitful  as  things  of  nature. 

ATAL.  [To  Nea]  This  is  well ; — 

Meet  to  our  purpose,  at  the  needful  hour, 
When  they  might  succor  us.     We  must  persuade 
The  aid  and  office  they  will  scarce  deny 
To  one  who  holds  them  of  a  kindred  race, 
Though  of  another  element.     Away  ! 
Seek  their  chief,  Nea.     Show  him  all  our  strait, — 
Declare  our  want,  and  for  his  service  now, 


192  AT  A  LAN  TIS. 

Pledge  our  good  office  at  another  time. 

We  wait  thee  here.   \Exit  Nea.\  Alas  !  sweet  youth,  thou  look'st 

With  such  a  sadness  on  me ! 

LEON.  Not  on  thee; — 

"Tis  on  my  fate  I  look ! 

ATAL.  I  am  thy  fate  ! 

And  thou  wilt  hate  me  for  it !     Oh  !  forgive  ! — 
If  I  have  won  thee  now  against  thy  will, 
To  this  wild  venture,  I  do  free  thee  from  't ; — 
I  would  not  have  my  freedom,  did  it  bring 
A  moment's  grief  to  thee. 

LEON.  Thou  little  know'st, 

Sweet  Princess,  of  the  lessons  of  my  youth, 
The  training  of  my  people,  and  the  laws 
Which  make  it  still  our  duty  as  our  pride, 
To  stake  the  issues  all,  of  life  and  death, — 
All  that  we  pleasure  and  can  peril  most, — 
In  cause  of  love  and  beauty.     I  rejoice 
That  it  is  mine  to  combat  thy  mishap. 
This  is  a  venture  of  my  heart's  own  choice, 
Too  precious  to  be  yielded, — and,  forgive, — 
But  little  know'st  thou  of  Spain's  chivalry, 
When  thou  believest  that  its  valor  shrinks 
From  any  odds  with  fortune.     'Tis  with  me 
A  pride  to  seek  for  peril ;  and  we  hold, 
Taught  in  our  schools  of  faith  and  courtesie, 
That,  to  the  soul,  no  life  is  worth  a  care, 
Lock'd  up  from  noble  deeds,  lapsing  away 
Like  a  scant  brook,  beneath  a  sunny  sky, 
Scarce  murmuring  as  it  wanders  to  be  lost, 
In  the  embrace  of  the  o'erwhelming  sea. 

ATAL.     Oh  !  noble,  brave  philosophy  ! 

LEON.  We  fight, 

That  insolence  should  meet  check  and  overthrow, 


A  T  A  L  A  N  T  I  S .  193 

The  weak  find  succor,  and  the  innocent 
Be  always  sure  of  shelter  from  the  base ; — 
And,  when  the  peril  is  sought  for  one  so  fair, 
Then  do  our  masters  teach  us,  it  is  one 
On  which  the  heavens  look  down  approvingly 
And  the  bright  angels  cheer. 

ATAL.  And  yet  thou  griev'st ; — 

The  sorrow  grows  to  dews  upon  thy  lids, 
Even  while  thine  eyes  flash  fire. 

LEON,  My  grief,  alas ! 

Mark'd  in  my.  face,  is  from  the  wretched  fear, 
Now  coursing  through  my  brain,  that  she  I  seek, 
The  gentle  girl,  companion  of  my  youth, 
Bland  as  the  moonlight,  wooing  as  the  shade, 
And  sweet  as  fairy  music,  deeply  lies 
Buried  in  these  wild  waters — never  more, 
To  bless  me  with  the  music  of  her  voice — 
The  magic  of  her  smile — the  calm  delight 
Of  her  not  troublesome,  devoted  love ! 

ATAL.     Oh !  I  have  tears  to  share  with  thee  for  her ! — 
I  may  not  give  her  back  to  thee,  nor  bid 
The  voice  to  that  young  lip,  where,  like  a  bird, 
That  had  its  life  in  music  with  the  flowers, 
It  lapsed  in  long  and  loving  melodies ; 
But  I  will  toil  in  thy  service,  glad  to  be, 
For  thy  bereaved  heart  and  fever'd  brain, 
Most  like  to  her  thou  grievest.     I  will  strive, 
That  thou  shalt  so  esteem  me.     Not  a  tone, 
Fashion'd  by  love's  own  mood,  and  most  like  hers, 
But  I  shall  teach  my  language ; — not  a  look, 
Worn  by  her  gentlest  features,  but  shall  mine 
Skilfully  take  from  summer  skies  and  flowers, 
Requiting  thy  sad  heart. 

LEON.  Oh,  sweetest  maid — 

VOL.  i.  9 


194  ATALANTIS. 

Thy  form  is  kindred  to  thy  purposes, 
And  half  restores  me. 

ATAL.  All  will  I  restore — 

All  thou  hast  lost, — and  more.     Believe  me  then — 
And  stay  thy  sorrows.     I  will  all  replace, 
Of  thy  fond  fancies,  and,  with  love  as  true, 
Coupled  with  better  power  to  serve  its  hope, 
I'll  be  to  thee  far  more  than  she  thou  grievest, 
Though  her  affection,  from  the  innocent  hour 
Of  thy  confiding  childhood  and  pure  dreams, 
Boundless  as  ocean,  like  the  Mexique  waves, 
Knew  but  one  course,  and  ever  ran  to  thee. 
Believe  me,  dearest,  thou  shalt  nothing  lose 
Of  the  known  raptures.     Thou  shalt  many  win, 
Not  in  thy  wealth  before.     Thou  shalt  not  think, 
Ere  I  shall  know  and  satisfy  thy  thought. 

LEON.     Too  generous  maid. 

ATAL.  And, — hear  me,  gentle  prince  ! — 

If  to  thy  sleepless,  striving  memory, 
There  be  some  marks,  some  moods,  some  images, 
Some  sweet  tone,  some  fond  action,  some  dear  song 
Of  childhood,  or  some  innocent  prank  you've  known 
Together,  roving  amid  natural  bowers, — 
Teach  me  the  trick  of  it  all ; — teach  me  the  tone, 
The  dear  song,  the  fond  action,  the  gay  prank, 
Known  to  thy  happiest  childhood  ; — show  me  the  art, 
That  nothing  may  be  wanting — that  I  may  take 
A  presence  like  to  hers  upon  thy  sight, 
And  make  thee  rich  again,  possessing  her. 

LEON.     Thy  words  are  queenliest,  like  thyself,  sweet  maid, 
.aid  balsam  my  deep  wound, — if  not  to  cure, 
f'o  soothe  and  stay  its  throbbing.     Thou  hast  said, 
In  sweet  tones,  sweetest  words,  that  soften  much 
The  temper  of  my  sorrows. 


ATALANT  IS.  195 

ATAL.  I  am  glad, 

To  offer  to  thy  aid,  to  chide  thy  grief, — 

LEON.     Yet,  for  this  sweet  and  undeserved  love, 
If  I  look  coldly,  unbecomingly, — 
As  feeling  not  its  ministry,  nor  yet, 
Beholding  my  own  lack  that  makes  it  dear — 
Impute  it  not,  I  pray,  a  crime  in  me. 
I  am  not  cold  because  my  hope  is  so, 
Nor  yet  ungrateful  that  I  do  not  joy ; — 
I  shall  learn  better  to  requite  thy  love, 
In  warmest  language,  when  the  pang  is  gone 
Of  this  sad  trial — if  it  ever  goes. 

ATAL.     What  do  they  call  thee  ? 

LEON.  Leon  is  my  name. 

ATAL.     I'll  call  thee  Leon  ; — call  me  Atalant, — 
Thy  Atalant, — for  shall  I  not  be  thine  ? 
Ah  me !  no  longer  may  I  be  mine  own  ! 

LEON.     Beautiful  Atalant ! — 

ATAL.  But  here  they  come, 

Nea,  and  with  her  all  the  tricksy  tribe, 
That  ride  on  beams,  and  travel  with  the  stars ; 
And  sing  in  place  of  speech ;  and  fly  to  walk ; 
Now  here,  now  gone  ;  garb'd  cunningly  with  flowers, 
They  know  to  seem  at  pleasure ;  and  still  bless'd, 
With  that  which  were  our  sorrow — constant  change. 


196  ATALANTIS. 

SCENE    II.  —  The  Same. 

Enter  Nea  with  Fairies.    They  circle  the  Princess  and  Leon  singing. 
CHORUS  OF  FAIRIES. 


Lo,  we  come,  we  come,  we  come, 

On  the  glassy  moonbeams  riding, 
"While  no  cloud,  with  eye  of  gloom, 

Looks  down  on  us  chiding — 
Where  the  silver  sands  spread  out, 

Fit  for  spirits  gayly  moving ; 
Tossing  fruits  and  flowers  about, 

We  are  ever  roving. 

II. 

Lo,  we  fly,  we  fly,  we  fly, 

All  the  world  about  us  viewing, 
Now  in  sea  and  now  in  sky, 

Still  our  sport  pursuing. 
Where  the  moon  is  shining  clear, 

Where  the  winds  are  met  together, 
Do  we  daily  gather  there, 

In  the  summer  weather. 

III. 

Lo,  we  dance,  we  dance,  we  dance, 

On  the  land,  and  o'er  the  ocean  ; 
Seizing  on  each  happy  chance, 

With  a  glad  commotion. 
Where  the  summer's  leaves  are  green, 

Where  the  early  birds  are  singing, 
And  the  flowers  are  soonest  seen, 

We  are  with  them  springing. 


ATALANTIS.  197 

IV. 

Lo,  we  come,  we  come,  we  come, 

On  our  wings  of  light  descending  ; 
Wings  that  breathe,  like  flowers  in  bloom, 

Perfumes  never  ending. 
On  the  shining  sands  we  meet, 

In  the  bright  and  gentle  weather, 
Each  with  something  new  and  sweet, 

Dancing  all  together. 

ATAL.     Oh  !  ye  are  glad  to-night,  ye  merry  ones, 
"With  a  fresh  spirit,  methinks.     What  pleasant  hap, 
New  privilege,  or  wild  inheritance, 
Works  on  your  wings  such  fine  delirium  ? 
I  somewhat  marvel  at  your  happiness, 
Though  happy  always  ;  yet  your  wont  is  dull 
To  the  extravagant  rapture  of  your  mirth, 
And  your  free  song  to-night. 

NANITA.  Extravagant ! 

Our  mirth,  fair  Queen,  is  very  soberness ; 
We  are  the  modestest  fairies  of  the  wild, 
The  gravest,  quietest,  best  of  little  bodies, 
That  ever  made  mischief  in  a  neighbor's  fold, 
And  laugh'd  to  find  our  own.     Why,  people  call  us 
The  very  prudes  of  faerydom.     We  shake 
Our  heads  with  gravity  o'er  state  affairs, 
And  sit  in  council  with  old  Oberon, 
Who,  when  Titania  wakes  his  jealousy, 
Will  straight  prefer  our  wisdom  to  his  own  ; — 
As,  at  such  times,  indeed,  he  wisely  may. 

ATAL.     Oh !  pray  you  then  forgive  me !     Now  I  see 
That  you  are  sober  and  quiet  as  you  claim. 
Having  but  little  mirth,  and,  at  no  season, 
Extravagant  in  its  utterance.     Your  excess 
Lay  only  in  my  sadness.     'Twas  my  grief 


198  ATALANT1S. 

That  made  your  joy  extreme.     Your  mood, 
Thus  born  of  freedom,  little  sorts  with  mine, 
That  grows  with  my  captivity,  and  glooms 
With  the  dread  aspect  of  my  prison-house. 

LOLINE.     Yet  is  there  much  to  gladden  us  to-night. 
Have  we  not  newly  added  to  our  realms 
A  goodly  island,  gracious  in  extent, 
Whose  beauteous  sands,  drawn  out  in  lavish  scope, 
Persuades  the  moon's  best  smile  upon  our  revels. 

ATAL.     If  you  knew  all, — the  story  of  this  isle  ! — 
Yet  is  there  something  more,  or  I  mistake  ye, 
For  which  ye  joy  to-night. 

CARETA.  There  is  !     There  is  ! 

Rightly  you  spoke,  fair  Princess,  when  you  deem'd 
Our  joy  unwonted.     We  are  bless'd  to-night, 
Beyond  our  usual  measure.     You  shall  hear. 
Perchance  you  know  Zelina, — of  our  tribe, 
The  sweetest,  merriest  creature — full  of  fun, — 
But  glad  to  serve,  and,  with  the  happiest  art, 
To  make  the  service  pleasant  as  the  will, 
That  prompts  it  to  compliance.     She  is  here — 
Just  freed  from  a  captivity  like  yours  ; 
Since  in  her  sport,  by  some  undreampt  mischance, 
She  smote  Titania's  favorite  nonpareil, 
And  broke  its  gossamer  wing.     The  angry  Queen, 
For  this,  our  little  sister's  innocent  deed, 
Doom'd  her  a  prisoner  in  the  zephyr's  shell, 
Till  the  first  flowers  that  blossom  in  the  spring 
Should  speak  her  into  freedom.     Till  this  time 
Her  fate  was  pitiful : — to  use  no  wing, 
Murmur  no  more,  and  mingle  not,  in  song — 
See  none  to  comfort — hear  no  voice  of  love — 
Dance  no  capricious  revel  on  the  sands, 
But,  with  an  unresisting  sense,  to  float 


ATALANTIS.  199 

On  the  tumultuous  billows,  night  and  morn, 
Until  the  birth  of  that  same  flower  of  spring ! 
Found  on  the  pleaaantest  shore  beneath  the  sun, 
Where  first  he  soars  in  brightness  from  the  seas, 
We  haiPd  its  presence,  and  have  set  her  free  ; 
And,  from  her  prison,  with  delighted  wing, 
She  soars  with  us  to-night. 

LOL.  Nor  is  this  all — 

Another  captive  hath  to-night  been  freed, 
We  had  deem'd  lost  forever  to  our  sports. 
This  wanton  fairy,  sporting  in  the  breeze, 
Last  moon,  alone,  was  taken  prisoner 
By  that  same  tyrant-king,  Onesimarch, 
That  locks  you  in  ;  and,  'twere  a  fit  revenge, 
That  we  should  join  with  you,  for  these  same  wrongs, 
To  punish  him  in  turn.     Within  yon  rock, 
He  seal'd  her  up  in  crystal.     By  some  chance, 
Not  yet  discover'd,  all  her  bonds  were  broke, 
And  she  is  here  with  us.     Tinina  ! — here  ! 
Behold  the  maiden.  Princess.     She  knows  all 
The  secrets  of  this  tyrant's  ocean-towers,  . 
And,  for  your  wand's  recovery,  will  do 
Aught  that  will  seem  most  needful. 

ATAL.     [To  Tinina.']  Fit  a  barque, 

And  make  thy  wing  its  sail,  to  waft  this  Prince 
To  the  same  rock  that  was  thy  prison  late. 
Himself  will  do  the  rest.     'Tis  there,  I  learn, 
My  sceptre  is  sealed  up. 

TININA.  The  barque  is  here, 

Even  with  a  whisper,  and  my  wing  is  ready ; 
Will  't  please  you  go,  my  Prince  ? 

ATAL.     [timidly^  Wilt  thou  go,  Leon  ? 

LEON.     'Twill  please  and  make  me  proud. 

LOL.  Tinina,  nence ! 


200  ATALANTIS. 

I  give  thee  winds,  and  waters,  and  a  star, — 

I  spell  thee  with  a  talisman  of  safety, — 

And  crown  thee  with  a  will  and  wing  of  strength  ; 

Go  hence  in  courage,  aud  be  bless'd  in  service ; 

And  when  thy  task  is  done,  regain  our  course, 

Which  now  we  take  toward  the  Hundred  Isles, 

That  smile  in  the  Southern  Cross.     We  wait  thee  there, 

Princess,  we  gladden  that  our  offices 

Seem  worth  thy  tasking,  and  shall  find  delight, 

If  that  they  prosper  'neath  thy  hope  and  ours. 

Wings,  be  ye  up  and  wheeling — up,  I  say ! 

FLIGHT  OF  FAIRIES,  AND  CHORUS. 

We  are  they  who  fly  by  night, 
When  the  maiden  moon  is  bright, 
And  the  silver  beach  is  spread, 
Out  on  ocean  like  a  thread, 
Meetly  for  a  fairy's  tread : 
When  the  ah1  of  heaven  is  balm, 
When  the  ocean  waves  are  calm, 
And  the  flowers  of  earth  grow  bright, — 
We  are  they  who  fly  by  night ! 

[Exeunt  Fairies. 

ATAL.     Now,  Leon,  if  the  task  before  thee  seem 
Unsuited  to  thy  human  strength, — 

LEON.  'No  more ! 

Hold  me,  I  pray  thee,  Princess,  as  a  man 
That  better  loves  the  struggle  that  proves  manhood, 
Than  the  base  sleep  that  stagnates  all  his  soul. 
I  seek  the  adventure. 

ATAL.  Then,  this  sylph  will  guide  ; — 

Will  bear  thee  safely  o*er  these  tumbling  gulfs, 
To  yon  tall  rock,  now  beetling  black  and  vast 
Above  the  whiten'd  billows.    Boldly  speed, 


ATALANTIS.  201 

Nothing  misdoubting,  howsoever  strange 
The  thing  that  rises  threatening  in  thy  path. 
The  mystic  ring  that  wraps  thy  finger  round, 
Hath,  in  itself,  a  wondrous  faculty, 
To  shield  the  wearer  from  the  unlicensed  power 
Of  spirits  of  evil. 

LEON.  Atalant,  I  go, 

Having  a  better  talisman  of  safety, 
In  service  which  is  noble,  and  in  prayer 
To  him  who  checks  and  may  subdue  all  spirits, 
Than  in  this  hoop  of  magic.     See,  this  cross, 
Which  crowns  the  mortal  weapon  that  I  wear, 
As  life  is  over  death  ! — this  is  my  shield, 
As,  in  the  blade,  I  find  my  ample  sword  ; 
With  these  I  go  unfearing. 

ATAL.  Would  thou  went'st 

With  brow  serene — with  happier  thought  than  now. 

LEON.     Heed  not  the  mood  of  this  most  heavy  heart, 
That  clouds  the  brow  thou  look'st  on.     Some  few  days 
Will  hush  the  impatient  grief  that  murmuring  cries, 
Seeking  a  loved  one  lost.     When  I  return, 
And  thou  hast  led  me  where  my  sister  lies, 
Though  she  beholds  not  as  I  weep  beside  her, 
Still  will  I  strive  to  thank  thee  with  a  blessing, 
Whose  eyes  shall  look  but  love  ! 

ATAL.  Till  then  I  live  not ! 


Tinina  sings. 

The  vrind  is  on  the  wave,  and  the  billow  rolls  away, 
And  the  star  that  is  the  guide  to  the  voyager  is  bright, 

But  the  fickle  wind  may  change,  should  the  voyager  delay, 

And  the  star  beneath  the  demon  cloud  may  perish  from  the  sight. 

The  will,  and  the  wing,  are  both  ready  while  I  sing — 

And  the  service  that  makes  music  as  for  love  it  labors  still, 
9* 


202  ATALANTIS. 

Hath  no  murmur  for  the  eat,  though  it  whispers  still  of  caro, 
And  implores  that  the  season  be  not  forfeit  to  the  will. 

Then  away,  then  away,  ere  we  meet  the  coming  day, 
For  the  dewy  haze  is  rising  like  a  curtain  o'er  the  sea  ; — 

I  have  winds  and  waves  and  star,  but  they  serve  us  not  in  war, 
And  the  present  bears  the  flower  that's  most  precious  unto  me. 

LEON.     The  delicate  song  is  sung  in  my  behalf, 
A  counsel  spoke  in  sweetness,  as  should  be 
All  counsel  for  the  loved  one  ; — fairy,  thanks  ! — 
I'm  with  thee  ! — sweetest  princess,  fare  thee  well ! 

ATAL.     I  dare  not  bid  thee  go,  but  if  thou  wilt, 
My  heart  has  but  one  bidding — soon  return. 

[Exeunt  Leon  and  Tinina. 

NEA.     Sweet  mistress  ! — 

ATAL.  Come  with  me  to  ocean's  edge, — 

That  we  may  soonest  hail  his  coming  back, 
Made  happy  in  his  safety. 

NEA.  This  is  love !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE    III. 

The  Rock  and  Tower  of  Onesimarchus.     Ogre  chained  at  the  base. 

OGRE.     Shall  I  not  have  revenge — shall  he  not  feel, 
This  wanton  wrong  that  he  hath  put  on  me, 
In  his  unmeasured  wrath  ?     Must  I  submit 
To  wear  the  chains  about  my  limbs,  as  now ; 
Still  fearing,  that,  for  every  erring  deed, 
I  may  not  'scape  the  villain  penalty, 
But  bend  my  shrinking  back  to  meet  the  scourge, 
"When  't  suits  a  fellow-slave  to  place  it  there  ! 
I'll  be  revenged. — Already  have  I  done 


ATALANTIS.  203 

Something  towards  it ;  for,  throughout  the  hour, 

When  that  his  storms  were  raging  o'er  my  limbs, 

Chafed  into  madness,  the  dismember'd  rocks 

I  hurl'd  into  his  secret  halls 'above, 

And  the  repeated  crash  gave  token  sure 

Of  a  wild  mischief — and  I  rest  not  here ! 

He  cannot  punish  me  more  than  he  has  done, 

And,  let  the  tyrant  will  it  so  or  not, 

I  leave  his  service  when  my  limbs  are  free. 

Ha  !     What  are  these  ?     How  now  !     What  seek  you  here  ? 

Enter  Leon  and  Tinina, 

What  is  it  that  you  lack  ?     Speak,  ere  I  strike, 
And  hurl  you  into  pieces  with  this  rock. 

LEON.     Thou  monstrous  slave,  what  is  it  that  thou  sayst  ? 
Dost  threaten  too  ?     Stand  by,  and  let  me  pass, 
Or  thus,  I  thrust  my  weapon  to  thy  heart. 

TININA.     Forbear  !     Thou  wert  an  infant  in  his  grasp, 
And  he  would  crush  thee  at  a  single  stroke. 
Show  him  thy  spell  of  power — but  lift  thy  ring  ! 
See,  now,  he  trembles  :  keep  it  thus  in  sight, 
And  we  shall  pass.     No  strength  is  in  his  arm, — 
He  cannot  hurt  us  now.  \They  ascend  and  enter  the  rock. 

OGR&.  Terrible  power ! 

How  has  it  fetter'd  me,  and  taken  away 
Each  nerve  once  strung  for  action.     Lo  !  they  come, 
And  bearing  off  my  master's  instruments. — 
Well,  let  them  go  !     I  glad  me  he  hath  wrong  ! 
I  would  that  he  were  fetter'd  in  my  place, 
And  I  were  free  and  had  no  master  then  ; 
How  would  I  revel  in  all  goodly  things  ! — 
What  lusts  would  I  delight  in, — food  and  drink, 
Until  my  senses  swim,  and  sleep  i'  the  sun, 
Doing  no  service  more  !     Ah  !  here  they  come. 


204  ATALANTIS. 

Enter  Leon  and  Tinina. 

LEON.     Slave,  wouldst  thou  have  thy  freedom,  and  escape 
The  tyranny  that  tramples  in  this  wise, 
Loading  thy  limbs  with  chains,  while  the  salt  sea, 
Enflames  the  galling  tortures  of  the  scourge  f 

OGRE.     That  would  I,  mighty  prince. 

LEON.  Thou  hast  it  then. 

Throw  by  the  chain  thou  wear'st  and  follow  me. 

OGRE.     I'll  fling  it  in  the  sea.     Shall  I  do  more  ? 
Bid  me  upheave  this  rocky  battlement, 
Wherein  he  keeps  his  magic,  I'll  not  pause  ; — 
Do  thou  but  say  the  word. 

LEON.  Nay,  heed  it  not ! 

If  she  I  serve  do  thus  decree,  thou  mayst, — 
Not  else. 

OGRE.         How  now  !  you  are  no  monarch  then  ? 
Whom  serve  you  ? 

LEON.  The  fair  princess,  Atalantis. 

OGRE.     I  do  remember  that  she  spoke  for  me, 
And  would  have  saved  me  from  this  scourge  and  rock. 
A  goodly  princess — I  will  worship  her. 

Tinina  sings. 

The  bark  is  on  the  sea,  and  the  breeze  is  in  the  sail, 

And  the  star  to  guide  us  onward  is  now  gleaming  o'er  the  steep  ; 
We  have  won  the  prize  we  sought,  and  the  whisper  of  the  gale 

Would  counsel  us,  the  treasure,  we  have  haply  won,  to  keep. 
Then  away,  then  away,  ere  the  tyrant  seeks  his  prey, — 

There's  a  murmur  of  the  ocean  that's  unfriendly  to  our  flight ; 
And  the  cricket  at  mine  ear  has  a  chirrup  full  of  fear, 

That  but  lately  sung  in  music  of  a  confident  delight. 

LEON.     Even  as  thou  wilt,  sweet  maiden  ;  let  us  hence 
To  her  who  waits  in  hope  and  innocence. 


ATALANTIS.  205 

SCENE    IV. 
The  Ocean  between  the  rocks  and  the  Islet. 

Atalantis,  Lewi,  and  Nea.     Onesimarchus  approaching  with  his 

Legions. 

ONESI.     Ha  !  what  is  here — what  fearful  change  is  this  ? — 
The  rock  of  spells  o'erthrown,  and  Atalant, 
Again  with  wand  restored,  and,  at  her  side, 
The  lowly  instrument  of  her  release. 
I  did  not  guard  against  a  thing  of  earth, 
And  he  hath  wrought  this  ruin  of  my  hopes. 
She  smiles  upon  him  too — perchance  she  loves — 
Hell ! — that  I  cannot  blast  her  with  a  look, 
And  him,  the  minion,  that  hath  won  her  love  ! — 
He  shall  not  live,  to  triumph  in  that  love, 
Enjoying  raptures  still  denied  to  me. 
Eise  waters — lift  your  heads — mount  up  and  soar, 
Engulfing  all  that  may  not  ride  upon  ye  ; 
And  thou,  dismember  d  shore,  again  descend, 
Down  to  the  oozy  depths  from  whence  thou  cam'st — 
I  need  thee  nothing  farther — sink,  I  say. 

\He  waves  his  wand  and  the  island  descends. 

ATAL.     Now,  Leon,  place  thy  hand  within  mine  own ; 
Fear  not  the  billows — hearken  not  their  roar, — 
They  cannot  harm  thee,  thus  accompanied. 

LEON.     And  ye,  fair  skies,  farewell.     Thou  fatal  isle, 
Which  robb'd  me  of  my  best  beloved,  farewell ! 
I  sorrow  not  to  see  thee  downward  go, 
Troubling  no  mariner  hence.     One  long  last  look, 
Ye  bright  clouds,  that  remind  me  of  my  home — 


206  ATALANTIS. 

My  country,  all,  farewell.     Oh,  never  more 
Shall  my  eyes  gladden  with  your  glimpse  again. 
Now  Isabel,  I  come  ! 

ATAL.  Thou  hast  no  fear, 

Dear  Leon,  from  this  danger  ? 

LEON.  Little  now, 

Since,  in  the  wonders  that  are  shown  to  me, 
I  yield  me  to  the  fullest  faith  in  all 
That  thou  hast  promised  me. 

ATAL.  Thou  soon  shalt  see, 

How,  as  to  me,  these  waters  shall  become 
Familiar  to  thy  nature.     Thou  wilt  glide 
Unharm'd  between  their  billows,  which  shall  lift 
Thy  form,  with  friendly  succor,  as  thou  will'st, 
Making  their  arms  thy  servants. 

LEON.  I  believe, — 

And  round  thy  waist,  sweet  Atalant,  I  twine, 
Fearless,  my  confident  arm  and  murmur  not. 
I  would  not  look  upon  the  skies  again, 
That  witness'd  my  late  ruin  ;  and  the  seas, 
That  wrought  it  all,  beget  no  terrors  now. — 
We  do  not  sink. 

ATAL.  Not  yet !— Behold  afar, 

Where,  gathering,  grow  vast  legions — angry  forms, 
Gigantic,  that  in  masses,  or  alone, 
Dart  onward,  with  a  glittering  panoply 
That  flames  the  crests  of  ocean  far  and  wide, 
While  roll  the  constant  thunders  of  the  gong, 
That  calls  them  still  to  rise. 

LEON.  I  see  !  I  see ! 

ATAL.     These  are  the  armies  of  my  own  domain, 
Led  by  my  gallant  brothers.     They  go  forth, 
To  fight  and  conquer  this  Onesimarch, 
Who,  strong  in  trick  and  artifice  alone, 


ATALANTIS.  207 

Will  never  meet  them  in  the  open  field. 
Already,  see,  he  shrinks  ; — his  hosts  retire, 
And  his  fierce  rule  departs. 

LEON.  The  land  is  gone  ! 

ATAL.     Yes,  down  we  sink,  and  thou  art  all  mine  own  : 
I  bear  thee  on  the  waters,  for  a  while, 
To  prove  the  power  I  have  to  succor  thee. 
Now  for  the  calm  retreat,  by  ocean  girt, 
And  stormy  waves  protected — now  with  me  ! 
There  in  the  sunny  hours  that  lapse  away, 
Like  angel  messengers,  and  leave  no  pain, 
Thy  heart  shall  grow  to  gladness.     Life  shall  be 
A  sweet,  rich,  gracious  time, — a  pure  estate, 
Beyond  the  strifes  that  trouble  it  with  man  : — 
Free  from  controlling  crowds — free  from  the  jar, 
The  heat,  the  noise,  the  dust  of  human  care. 
Nature  shall  blight  thee  never,  nor  disease 
Bind  thee  in  loathsome  sheets ;  nor  tempests  rise 
To  blasts  thy  fields,  dispute*  thy  fondest  hope, 
And,  from  thy  wearied  and  exhausted  heart, 
Drink  the  sweet  life-blood  of  thy  innocent  joy. 
The  breeze  shall  rather  soothe  thee  with  a  breath, 
Robb'd  from  celestial  gardens.     The  blue  waves, 
Shall  roll  their  tribute  honors  to  thy  feet ; 
Upon  their  bosom,  many  an  offering  placed, 
Of  fruits,  fresh  wafted  from  far  Indian  isles 
Wooing  thee  with  their  fragrance.     In  the  air, 
Nature  shall  cast  her  odors,  and  thine  eye 
Shall  never  ope  but  to  behold  some  new 
And  most  luxuriant  freshness  in  her  form  ; 
And,  I  shall  love  thee  too,  and  toil  untired 
To  give  thee  back  the  maiden  whom  thou  seek'st. 

LEON.     Ah  !  if  thou  couldst ! — but  no  !     The  hope  is  vain, 
And  the  wish  idle.     Yet  the  love  thou  givest, 


208  ATALANTIS. 

Might  well  compensate,  to  this  baffled  heart, 
The  loss  which  still  it  weeps. 

ATAL.  Oh  !  do  not  weep. 

I'll  love  thee  in  all  fortunes.     At  the  morn, 
I'll  lead  thee  through  our  waters,  'mid  our  caves, 
Where,  in  unconscious  brightness,  cluster  gems 
Had  set  your  world  on  fire.     There  shall  you  mark 
Glad  sea-maids  that,  attending  on  our  steps, 
Fill  their  deep  shells  with  song ;  and,  when  the  sun 
Shines  burningly  at  noon,  in  coral  groves, 
Thy  head  well  pillow'd  on  my  happy  breast, 
I'll  sit  and  watch  thy  slumbers,  blest  to  soothe 
Thy  ever  beating  pulse,  and  kiss  thy  lips, 
When,  murmuring  in  thy  sleep,  thou  speak'st  the  name, 
Of  her  thou  still  hast  loved. 

LEON.  No  more  of  her. 

I  go  with  thee,  sweet  Atalant. — We  sink  ! 

Chorus  of  Sea-Nymphs  as  the  island  descends, 


THE   CASSIQUE  OF  ACCABEE; 

A    LEGEND    OF    ASHLEY    EIVEE. 


A  FEW  words,  by  way  of  preface,  will  save  as  the  necessity  of  burdening  with  notes  the 
little  story  which  follows.  Accabee  is  the  well-known  name  of  a  lovely,  but  neglected, 
farmstead,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Charleston,  on  Ashley  River.  It  was  in  earlier  periods 
applied  to  a  larger  district  in  the  same  neighborhood.  Keawah  is  the  aboriginal  name  oi 
the  Ashley.  The  tribe  of  Accabee  was  probably  of  the  same  family  with  the  Yemassees, 
the  Edistos,  tod  other  groups,  inhabiting  the  lower  country  of  South  Carolina.  The  Gaelic 
Chief  spoken  of  in  the  text  was  Lord  Cardross,  who  made  a  settlement  at,  or  near,  Beaufort, 
which,  after  a  brief  existence  of  four  years,  was  destroyed  by  an  incursion  of  the  Indians 
and  Spaniards. 


IT  was  a  night  of  calm — o'er  Ashley's  waters 

Crept  the  sweet  billows  to  their  own  soft  tune, 
While  she,  most  bright  of  Keawah's  fair  daughters, 
Whose  voice  might  spell  the  footsteps  of  the  moon, 
As  slow  we  swept  along, 
Pour'd  forth  her  own  sweet  song, 
A  lay  of  rapture  not  forgotten  soon. 

Hush'd  was  our  breathing,  stay'd  the  lifted  oar, 

Our  spirits  rapt,  our  souls  no  longer  free, 
While  the  boat  drifting  softly  to  the  shore, 
Brought  us  within  the  shades  of  Accabee ; — 
"  Ah  !"  sudden  cried  the  maid, 
In  the  dim  light  afraid ; 
"  Tis  here  the  ghost  still  walks  of  the  old  Yemassee." 


210  THE     CASSIQUE     OF    ACCABEE 

And  sure  the  spot  was  haunted  by  a  power, 
To  fix  the  pulses  in  each  youthful  heart ; 
Never  was  moon  more  gracious  in  a  bower, 
Making  delicious  fancy  work  for  art ; 
Weaving,  so  meekly  bright, 
Her  pictures  of  delight, 
That,  though  afraid  to  stay,  we  sorrow'd  to  depart. 


"  If  these  old  groves  are  haunted" — sudden  then, 

Said  she,  our  sweet  companion — "  it  must  be 
By  one  who  loved,  and  was  beloved  again, 
And  joy'd  all  forms  of  loveliness  to  see : — 
Here,  in  these  groves  they  went, 
Where  love  and  worship,  blent, 
Still  framed  the  proper  God  for  each  idolatry. 


"  It  could  not  be  that  love  should  here  be  stern, 

Or  beauty  fail  to  sway  with  sov'ran  might; 
These,  from  so  blessed  scenes,  should  something  learn, 
And  swell  with  tenderness  and  shape  delight : 
These  groves  have  had  their  power, 
And  bliss,  in  bygone  hour, 
Hath  charm'd,  with  sigh  and  song,  the  passage  of  the  night," 


"  It  were  a  bliss  to  think  so  ;"  made  reply 

Our  Hubert — "yet  the  tale  is  something  old, 
That  checks  us  with  denial ; — and  our  sky, 

And  these  brown  woods  that,  in  its  glittering  fold, 
Look  like  a  fairy  clime, 
Still  unsubdued  by  time, 
Have  evermore  the  tale  of  wrong'd  devotion  told." 


THE    CASSIQUE     OF    ACGABEE.  211 

"  Give  us  thy  legend,  Hubert ;"  cried  the  maid  ; — 

And,  with  down-dropping  oars,  our  yielding  prow 
Shot  to  a  still  lagoon,  whose  ample  shade 

Droop'd  from  the  gray  moss  of  an  'old  oak's  brow  : 
The  groves,  meanwhile,  lay  bright, 
Like  the  broad  stream,  in  light, 
Soft,  sweet  as  ever  yet  the  lunar  loom  display'd. 


"  Great  was  the  native  chief," — 'twas  thus  began 

The  legend  of  our  comrade — "  who,  in  sway, 
Held  the  sweet  empire  which  to-night  we  scan, 
Stretching,  on  either  hand,  for  miles  away  : 
A  stalwart  chief  was  he, 
Cassique  of  Accabee, 
And  lord  o'er  numerous  tribes  who  did  with  pride  obey. 


"  War  was  his  passion,  till  the  white  man  came, 

And  then  his  policy ; — and  well  he  knew, 
How,  over  all,  to  plan  the  desperate  game, 

And  when  to  rise,  and  when  to  sink  from  view ; 
To  plant  his  ambush  well, 
And  how,  with  horrid  yell, 
To  dart,  at  midnight  forth,  in  fury  arm'd  with  flame. 


"  His  neighbor-s  by  the. Ashley,  the  pale  race, 

Were  friends  and  allies  'gainst  all  other  foes ; 
They  dwelt  too  nearly  to  his  royal  place, 

To  make  the  objects  of  their  commerce  blows  ; 
But  no  such^ scruple  staid 
His  wild  and  cruel  raid, 
When,  by  Helena's  Bay,  the  Gaelic  hamlet  rose. 


212  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    A  CCA  BEE. 

"  And  moved  by  Spanish  wile  that  still  misled, 
Our  chieftain,  in  one  dark  November  night, 
With  all  his  warriors,  darted  from  his  bed, 

And  drove  the  Gaelic  chief  from  his,  in  flight : — 
Scalplocks  and  other  spoils, 
Rewarded  well  his  toils, 
And  captives  graced  his  triumph  after  fight. 


"  But,  when  the  strife  was  wildest,  and  the  fire 

Play'd  fiercest  on  the  roofs  of  bough  and  leaf, 
A  fair-hair'd  child,  misdeeming  him  her  sire, 

Rush'd  headlong  to  the  arms  of  the 'red  chief: — 
'Twas  not  his  hour  to  spare — 
His  fingers  in  her  hair, 
And  tomahawk,  lifted  high,  declared  his  savage  ire. 


"  But,  in  the  light  of  her  own  blazing  home, 

He  caught  the  entreaty  in  her  soft  blue  eye, 
Which,  weeping  still  the  while,  would  wildly  roam, 
From  him  who  held,  to  those  who  hurried  by  ; — 
Strange  was  the  emotion  then, 
That  bade  him  stay  his  men, 
And,  in  his  muscular  arms,  lift  that  young  damsel  high. 


I    "  He  bore  her  through  the  forest,  many  a  mile, 
L      With  a  rude  tenderness  and  matchless  strength  ; 
She  slept  upon  his  arm — she  saw  his  smile, 
Seen  seldom,  and  reached  Accabee  at  length  ; 
Here,  for  a  term,  he  kept 
The  child,  her  griefs  unwept, 
With  love,  that  did  from  her  a  seeming  love  beguile. 


THE  CASSIQUE  OF  ACCABEE.      21'' 

"  Daughter  of  ancient  Albyn,  she  was  bright, 
With  a  transparent  beauty ;  on  her  cheek, 
The  rose  and  lily,  struggling  to  unite, 

Did  the  best  blooms  of  either  flower  bespeak ; 
Whilst  floods  of  silken  hair, 
Free  flowing,  did  declare 
The  gold  of  western  heavens  when  sinks  the  sun  from  sight. 


"  Our  chief  had  reached  his  thirtieth  summer — she 

Was  but  thirteen ;  yet,  till  he  saw  this  maid, 
Love  made  no  portion  of  his  reverie : 

Strife  was  his  passion,  and  the  midnight  raid  ; 
The  dusky  maids,  in  vain, 
Had  sought  to  weave  their  chain, 
About  that  fierce  wild  heart  that  still  from  all  went  free. 


"  But,  free  no  longer,  they  beheld  him  bound 

By  his  fair  captive ;  strife  was  now  unsought ; 
The  chase  abandon'd  ;  and  his  warriors  found 

Their  chief  no  more  where  fields  were  to  be  fought  ;- 
He  better  loved  to  brood 
In  this  sweet  solitude, 
She  still  in  sight,  who  thus  her  captor's  self  had  caught. 


"  She  little  dream'd  her  conquest,  for  he  still 

Maintain'd  her  as  his  child,  with  tenderness  ; — 
As  one  who  seeks  no  farther  of  his  will, 

Than  to  protect  and  with  sweet  nurture  bless  ; 
Such  love  as  sire  might  show, 
Did  that  dark  chief  bestow, 
When,  with  a  gentle  clasp,  he  met  her  child-caress. 


214  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    ACCABEE. 

"She  grew  to  be  the  blossom  of  his  sight — 

For  her  he  snared  the  fawn, — for  her  he  brought 
Gay  gauds  of  foreign  fabric ;— her  delight 

Being  still  the  sweetest  recompense  he  sought ; — 
And,  when  her  feet  would  rove, 
He  led  her  through  the  grove, 
Show'd  her  its  devious  paths  and  all  its  secrets  taught. 


"  She  grew  apace  in  beauty  as  in  years, 

And  he  the  more  devoted  : — until  now 
His  eye  beheld  her  growth  and  had  no  fears, — 
But  soon  a  shadow  rose  above  his  brow  ; — 
That  shadow,  born  of  doubt, 
Which  finds  love's  secret  out, 
And,  o'er  its  sunniest  bower,  still  spans  an  arch  of  tears. 


"  This  shadow  had  its  birth  with  our  dark  chief, 

When  to  his  home,  one  eve,  returning  late, 
He  saw,  with  passion  still  subdued  by  grief, 
A  stranger  with  his  beauty,  in  his  gate ; — 
One  of  the  pale  white  race, 
Whose  presence,  in  that  place, 
Brought  to  his  heart  a  fear  that  troubled  it  like  fate. 


"  Yet  was  he  but  a  pedlar, — he  who  came, — 

Thus  troubling  waters  which  had  slept  before ; 
He  brought  his  glittering  wares,  and  did  but  claim 
To  show  them,  and  night's  lodging  to  implore  : 
And,  o'er  his  pack,  with  eyes 
Of  eager,  glad  surprise, 
Stoop'd  our -young  maid  when  stept  the  chief  within  his  door. 


CASSIQUE    OF    ACCABEE.  215 


"  His  stealthy  footsteps  stirr'd  no  single  sound  ; 
They  knew  noj;  of  the  eyes  upon  them  set  — 
She,  the  gay  thoughtless  girl,  in  thought  profound, 
Deep  in  such  wealth  as  had  not  tempted  yet  ; 
While  his  —  the  stranger's  —  gaze, 
In  a  most  pleasant  maze, 
Scann'd  her  bright  cheeks,  unseen,  from  eyes  of  glittering  jet. 


"  A  handsome  youth,  of  dark  and  amorous  glance, 

Showing  a  grateful  consciousness  of  power, 
Yet  thoughtless,  in  that  moment  of  sweet  trance, 
How  best  to  woo  and  win  the  forest  flower ; 
Even  at  that  moment,  stood 
The  red-man  from  the  wood, 
Gazing,  with  instinct  grief,  that  had  its  birth  that  hour. 


"  Quickly  he  broke  the  silence  and  came  forth, 

While  the  fair  girl,  upstarting  from  her  dream, 
Hurried  his  search  into  such  stores  of  worth, 
As  did  on  eyes  of  young  Aladdin  gleam : — 
Clipping  his  neck  with  arms 
That  spoke  of  dearer  charms, 
The  maid  Othello  loved  might  she  that  moment  seem. 


"And,  with  a  pleased,  but  still  a  sinking  heart, 

He  yielded  to  her  pleading  :  he  had  stores, — 
Such  treasures  as  the  red-man  might  impart, 
Of  precious  value,  borne  to  foreign  shores  ; 
Spoils  in  the  forest  caught, 
By  tribute  hunter  brought, 
Soft  furs  from  beaver  won  by  snares  of  sylvan  art. 


216  THE     CASS1QUE     OF     A  CCA  BEE. 

"  Sadly,  the  indulgent  chief — but  with  a  smile, — 

Gave  up  his  treasure  at  his  ward's  demand ; 
The  precious  gauds  which  did  her  eyes  beguile, 
Soon  clasp'd  her  neck,  or  glitter'd  in  her  hand. 
All  had  she  won — but  still 
There  was  a  feminine  will, 
That  led  her  glance  astray  beneath  that  stranger's  wile. 


"  Their  eyes  commerced  beside  the  blazing  fire, 

Hers  still  unconscious  of  the  erring  vein  ; 
The  chief  beheld,  in  his,  the  keen  desire, 

And  his  heart  swell'd  with  still  increasing  pain  ; 
Yet,  though  the  sting  was  deep, 
His  passion,  made  to  sleep, 
Look'd  calm  through  eyes  that  seem'd  a  stranger  still  to  ire. 


"His  board  was  spread  with  hospitable  hand, 

Crisp'd  the  brown  bread  and  smoked  the  venison  steak ; 
An  ancient  squaw,  still  ready  at  command, 
Pour'd  the  casina  tea,  their  thirst  to  slake ; 
Then,  as  the  hour  grew  late, 
With  calm  and  lofty  state, 
The  chief  himself,  with  care,  the  stranger's  couch  did  make. 


"  At  sunrise  they  partook  the  morning  meal, 

And  then  the  white  man  went  upon  his  way  ; 
Not  without  feeling — teaching  her  to  feel — 
How  sweet  to  both  had  been  his  still  delay : — 
The  nature,  long  at  rest, 
Rose,  pleading,  at  her  breast, 
For  that  pale  race  from  which,  perforce,  she  dwelt  astray. 


THE    CASSIQUE    OF    ACCABEE.  217 

"  She  long'd  for  their  communion, — for  the  youth 

Had  waken'd  memories,  not  to  be  subdued, 
Of  that  dear  home,  and  friends  whose  tender  ruth 
Possess'd  her  still  in  that  sweet  solitude ; 
And,  saddening  with  the  thought, 
Her  secret  soul  grew  fraught 

With  hopes,  with  doubts,  with  dreams,  o'er  which  she  loved  to 
brood. 

"The  chief  beheld  the  trouble  in  her  eyej 
He  felt  as  well  the  trouble  in  his  heart, 
And,  ere  the  morrow's  sun  was  in  the  sky, 
He  bade  her  make  her  ready  to  depart ; — 
He  had  a  wider  home, 
Where  love  might  safely  roam, 
Nor  fear  the  stranger's  foot,  nor  tremble  at  his  art. 

"  Cassique  among  the  Edistos,  he  bore 

His  treasure  to  the  river  of  that  name ; 
He  sought  the  forests  on  its  western  shore, 
Millions  of  acres  he  alone  might  claim ; 
Where  the  great  stream  divides, 
He  cross'd  its  double  tides, 
Still  seeking  denser  empires  to  explore. 

0 

•"  At  length,  he  paused  beside  a  little  lake, 

A  clear  sweet  mirror  for  the  midnight  star ; 
'  Soon,  weary  one,  thy  slumbers  shalt  thou  take ; 
In  sooth,  to-day,  our  feet  have  wander'd  far ; 
Yet  look,  and  thou  shalt  see, 
The  wigwam  smokes  for  thee, — 

Those  fires  that  gleam  through  woods  show  where  our  people  are. 
VOL.  L  10 


218  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    ACCABEE. 

"  'Here  shalt  thou  have  fond  service — here  the  clime 

Is  sweet  and  healthful  ; — buskin'd,  with  thy  bow, 
Thou'lt  wander  forth  with  me,  at  morning's  chime, 
And  I  to  snare  or  slay  the  game,  will  show : 
Broad  are  the  sheltering  woods, 
Bright  are  the  streams,  the  floods, 
And  safe  the  realm  that  hence  thy  youthful  heart  shall  know/ 


"  Thus  counselling,  he  led  her  o'er  the  plain, 

Down  the  smooth  hill,  beside  the  lakelet  clear ; 
They  tread  the  gloomy  forest  paths  again, 
Till  sudden,  the  whole  landscape  opens  fair ; 
'  Look !  weary  one,7  he  cries ; 
'  Our  realm  before  us  lies, 
Far  spread  as  bird  can  fly,  or  speeds  by  day  the  deer/ 


"  In  sooth,  to  one  whose  heart  is  all  at  rest, 
With  not  a  human  care  to  call  it  thence, 
It  was  a  home  that  rapture  might  have  bless'd, 
Lovely  to  sight  and  dear  to  innocence  ; 
Great  trees,  a  welcome  shade, 
Of  beech  and  poplar  made, 
Fortress  of  peace  that  love  might  deem  his  best  defence. 


"  Long  groves  of  pine  and  cedar  led  through  wastes 

Made  lovely  by  wild  flowers  of  every  hue ; 
Through  arching  boughs  and  vines  the  river  hastes, 
Still  with  the  song  of  birds  that  wander  too  ; 
A  fresh  green  realm,  unbroke 
By  plough,  or  woodman's  stroke, 
Kich  in  savannahs  green,  and  lakes  of  skyey  blue. 


THE    CASSIQUE    OF    ACCABEE.  219 

"  His  was  the  realm,  and  at  his  bidding  came 

The  tribes  that  peopled  it ;  beneath  his  sway 
They  framed  their  rude  society  ; — his  blame, 
Or  praise,  sufficient  guide  to  shape  their  way  ; 
Still,  with  the  falling  leaf, 
The  signal  of  our  chief 
Prepared  them  for  the  chase  and  counselled  their  array. 


"  And  thus,  for  many  a  moon,  within  that  shade, 

Dwelling  'mongst  vassals  rude  but  loyal  still, 
Remote,  but  not  in  loneliness,  our  maid 

Had  all  that  love  could  sigh  for,  but  its  will ; 
Submissive  still  she  found 
The  gentle  tribes  around, 
The  squaws  received  her  law,  the  warriors  too  obeyed. 

"  No  censure  check'd  her  walks — no  evil  eyes 

Darken'd  upon  her  childish  sports  at  eve  ; 
If  o'er  the  chieftain's  brow  a  trouble  lies, 

'Tis  sure  no  fault  of  hers  that  makes  him  grieve  ; 
For  her  he  still  hath  smiles, 
And,  in  her  playful  wiles, 
He  finds  a  charm  that  still  must  artlessly  deceive. 

"  Her  wild  song  cheers  him  at  the  twilight  hour, 

As,  on  the  sward,  beside  her  sylvan  cot, 
He  throws  him  down,  meet  image  of  a  power 
Subdued  by  beauty  to  the  vassal's  lot ; 
With  half  unconscious  gaze, 
His  eye  her  form  survevs, 
And  fancies  fill  his  heart  which  utterance  yet  have  not. 


220  THE     CASSIQUE     OF    ACCABEE. 

"  She  had  expanded  into  womanhood 

In  those  brief  years  of  mild  captivity, 
And  now,  as  'neath  his  glance  the  damsel  stood, 
Nothing  more  sweet  had  ever  met  his  eye  ; — • 
Fair,  with  her  Saxon  face, 
Her  form  a  forest  grace 
Had  won  from  woodland  sports  of  rare  agility. 


"  Her  rich  blue  eyes,  her  streaming  yellow  hair, 

The  soft  white  skin  that  show'd  the  crimson  tide, 
And  perfect  features — made  her  beauties  rare, 
That  well  the  charms  of  Indian  race  defied  ; — 
Her  motion,  as  of  flight, 
Tutor'd  by  wild  delight, 
Brought  to  her  form  a  grace  at  once  of  love  and  pride. 


"And,  as  he  gazed,  with  rapture  ill  suppress'd, 

Inly  the  chief  resolved  that  she  should  be 
The  woman  he  would  take  unto  his  breast, 

Ere  the  next  moon  should  ride  up  from  the  sea  ; 
His  child  no  more,  —  he  felt 
His  soul  within  him  melt, 
To  hear  her  voice  in  song,  her  thought  in  fancy  free. 


"  She  felt  at  last  her  power  upon  his  heart, 
As  she  beheld  the  language  in  his  eye  ; 
And,  with  this  knowledge,  came  a  natural  art, 
Which  bade  her  glances  unto  his  reply  ; 
Made  happy  by  her  look 
His  soul  new  poison  took, 
,  *rXir  her  to  his  breast,  nor  seem'd  she  to  deny. 


THE    CASSIQUE    OF    ACCABEE.  .221 

"  '  I  shall  go  hence,'  quoth  he,  '  the  Hunter's  Moon — 

These  sticks  shall  tell  thee  of  the  broken  days  ; 
When  all  are  gone,  I  shall  return, — and  soon 
The  beauties  that  I  hold  within  my  gaze, 
Shall  bless,  if  thou  approve, 
This  heart,  and  the  fond  love 
That  knows  thee  as  the  star  the  ocean  stream  that  sways.' 


"  And  she  was  silent  while  he  spake — her  head 

Sunk,  not  in  sadness,  and  upon  his  breast ; 
Fondly  he  kiss'd  her — other  words  he  said, 
And  still,  in  dear  embrace,  her  form  caress'd ; 
Then  parting,  sped  afar, 
Led  by  the  Hunter's  Star, 
Where  the  bear  wallows  in  his  summer  nest. 


"  She  had  no  sorrow  to  obey  the  will 

That  ruled  a  nation :  true,  he  slew  her  sire, 
But  he  had  been  a  gentle  guardian  still, 
Baffling  each  danger,  soothing  each  desire  ; 
The  power  that  he  possess'd 
Was  grateful  to  her  breast, 
And  warm'd  with  pride  the  heart,  that  lack'd  each  holier  fire. 

"  That  night  there  rose  an  image  in  her  dreams, 

Of  the  young  trader  seen  at  Accabee  ; 
His  fair  soft  face  upon  her  memory  gleams, 
His  keen,  dark,  searching  eye,  still  wantonly 
Pursues  her  with  its  blaze  ; 
And  she  returns  the  gaze, 
And  thus  her  heart  communes  with  one  she  cannot  see. 


222  THE    CASSIQUE    OF    ACCABEE. 

"  It  was  as  if  the  chief,  by  the  same  word 

That  told  his  own  fond  purpose,  had  compell'd 
The  image  of  the  person  she  preferred, — 
And,  seeing  him  in  dreams,  her  soul  was  spdl'd 
With  fancies  that,  in  vain, 
She  strove  to  hush  again — 
She  saw  their  shapes  by  day,  by  night  their  voices  heard. 


"  Saddened  by  this  communion,  she  withdrew 

From  those  who  sought  her  ;  in  deep  forests  went, 
By  lonely  streams  and  shades,  from  human  view, 
Nursing  a  vague  and  vexing  discontent ; — 
For  the  first  time,  a  care 
Hung  on  her  heart  like  fear — 
The  shadows  from  a  soul  not  wholly  innocent. 


"  There  is  a  fate  beside  us  day  and  night, 

Obedient  to  the  voice  within  our  hearts  ; 
Boldly  we  summon,  and  it  stands  in  sight; 
We  speak  not,  and  in  silence  it  departs ; — 
'Twas  thus  with  her,  as  still 
She  roved  with  aimless  will, 
Beside  the  swamps  through  which  the  Edisto  still  darts. 

"  She  spoke  aloud,  or  did  not  speak,  his  name, 

Whose  image  was  the  sole  one  in  her  breast ; 
But,  suddenly,  from  out  the  woods  he  came, 
And  mutual  glances  mutual  joy  express'd  : — 
'  Ah !  sought  so  long  before, 
I  fear'd  that,  never  more, 
Mine  eyes  should  see  the  form  that  kept  my  soul  from  rest. 


THE    CASSIQUE     OF    ACCABEE.  223 

** '  How  have  I  search'd  for  you  in  devious  path, 

Forgetful  of  the  mercenary  trade ! 
And  now,  though  perill'd  by  the  redman's  wrath, 
I  seek  you  in  forbidden  forest  shade  ; 
For  never,  since  that  night, 
When  first  you  met  my  sight, 
Hath  beauty  on  my  heart  such  sweet  impression  made.' 


"  They  sat  beneath  the  shade  of  silent  trees, 

Close  guarded  by  a  thicket  dense  and  deep ; 
There,  onward,  stole  the  river  at  its  ease, 

And,  through  the  air,  the  birds  made  easy  sweep  ; — 
Those  bowers  were  sweetly  dight 
For  safety  and  delight ; — 
The  stranger  won  the  prize  the  chieftain  still  would  keep. 


"  He  came,  the  dark-brow'd  chieftain,  from  the  chase, 

Laden  with  precious  spoils  of  forest  pride ; 
His  heart  exulting  as  he  near'd  the  place 
Where  the  fair  Saxon  waited  as  his  bride : 
But  who  shall  speak  the  grief 
That  shook  that  warrior  chief, 
When  they  declared  her  flight  with  yester-eventide. 


"  He  had  no  voice  for  anguish  or  regret ; — 

He  spake  not  of  his  purpose — but  went  forth, 
With  a  keen  spirit,  on  one  progress  set, 

Now  on  the  southern  stream  side,  now  the  north  ; 
Following,  with  sleuthhound's  scent, 
The  way  the  lovers  went, 
Tracking  each  footfall  sure,  in  leaf,  in  grass,  and  earth. 


224  THE    CASSIQUE     OF    ACCABEE. 

"  Nor  did  lie  track  in  vain  !     They  little  knew 

The  unerring  instinct  of  that  hunter  race  ; 
A  devious  progress  did  the  twain  pursue, 

Through  streams  and  woods,  to  baffle  still  the  trace ; 
But  how  should  they  beguile 
The  master  of  each  wile, 
Each  art  pursued  in  war  or  needful  in  the  chase  ? 


"  In  fancy  safe,  and  weary  now  with  flight, 
The  lovers  lay  at  noonday  in  the  shade  ; 
Soft  through  the  leaves  and  grateful  to  the  sight, 
The  sun  in  droplets  o'er  the  valley  play'd ; 
But  two  short  leagues,  and  they 
Should  leave  the  perilous  way, 
On  Keawah  secure,  in  home  by  squatter  made. 


"  Thus  -satisfied,  with  seeming  certainty, 

Won  by  the  hour's  sweet  stillness,  did  the  pair, 
Shelter'd  beneath  the  brows  of  an  old  tree, 
Give  freedom  to  the  love  they  joy'd  to  share  ; 
His  arm  about  her  press'd, 
She  lay  upon  his  breast, 
Life's  self  forgot  in  bliss  that  left  no  room  for  care. 


"  They  little  dream'd  that,  lurking  in  the  wood, 

A  witness  to  the  freedom  of.  their  bliss, 
The  fiery  chieftain  they  had  baffled  stood, 
Fierce,  with  envenomed  fang  and  fatal  hiss ; 
The  lord  of  death  and  life, 
He  grasp'd  the  deadly  knife, 
And  shook  the  tomahawk  high  but  rarely  known  to  miss. 


THE    CASSIQUE     OF    ACCABEE.  225 

"  But,  ere  lie  sped  the  weapon  to  its  mark, 

His  heart  grew  gentle  'neath  a  milder  sway  ; 
True,  they  had  left  his  dwelling  lone  and  dark, 
But  should  he  make  it  glad  were  he  to  slay  ? 
Nor,  if  the  man  he  slew, 
Could  he  again  renew 
The  trust  he  gave  the  maid  as  in  his  happier  day. 


"  Nor  could  he  strike,  with  stern  and  fatal  blow, 

Her  whose  fair  beauties  were  too  precious  still ; 
A  noble  purpose  came  to  soothe  his  woe, 

And  crown,  with  best  revenge,  a  generous  will ; — 
Forth  strode  he  from  the  wood, 
And  ere  they  knew,  he  stood, 
"With  weapon  bared,  and  look  still  resolute  to  kill. 


"  As  one  who  at  the  serpent's  rattle  starts, 

Sharp,  sudden  sounded  in  the  covert  nigh, 
They  heard  his  voice,  and  both  their  guilty  hearts 
Sunk,  hopeless,  'neath  the  expected  penalty ; 
But,  stifling  his  deep  grief, 
With  few  stern  words,  the  chief, 
Declared,  though  worthy  death,  the  guilty  should  not  die ! 


"  O'erjoy'd  at  respite  scarcely  yet  believed, 

The  girl  had  risen  and  rush'd  to  clasp  his  knees, 
But  he  whose  faith  had  been  so  much  deceived, 
No  homage  now  could  pacify  or  please  ; 

Calm,  but  with  gloomy  face, 
*:  He  checks  the  false  embrace, 

And  still,  the  crouching  youth,  with  scornful  eye,  he  sees. 


226  THE    CASSIQUE     OF    A  CCA  BEE, 

"  He  bade  them  rise  and  follow  where  he  led, 

Himself  conducted  to  the  dwelling  near  ; 
Here,  till  the  dawn,  each  found  a  separate  bed  ; 
With  morning  o'er  the  Keawah  they  steer  ; 
Still  guided  he  the  way, 
And,  ere  the  close  of  day, 
Once  more  the  three  to  shades  of  Accabee  repair. 


"  '  Here,'  said  he,  '  is  your  future  dwelling-place, 

This  be,  my  gift,  your  heritage  of  right ; 
The  holy  man,  of  your  own  foreign  race, 

Shall,  with  the  coming  day,  your  hands  unite  ; 
And  men  of  law  shall  know 
That  I  these  lands  forego, 
For  her  who  still  hath  been  the  apple  of  my  sight. 

"  '  See  that  you  cherish  her  with  proper  faith  ; — 

If  that  you  wrong  her,  look  for  wrong  from  me  : 
Once  have  I  spared  you,  when  the  doom  was  death  ; 
Beware  the  future  wrath  you  may  not  flee  ; 
Mine  eye  shall  watch  for  hers, 
And  if  a  breath  but  stirs 
Her  hair  too  rudely, — look  for  storms  on  Accabee.' 


"  He  did  as  he  had  promised  ;  they  were  wed 

By  Christian  rites, — and  legal  deeds  convey'd 
The  heritage  ; — without  a  word  then  sped 
The  chief  into  his  forests,  seeking  shade  : 
Months  pass'd — a  year  went  by, 
And  none  beheld  his  eye,  [stray 'd. 

Where  still  his  thought,  with  love,  through  these  sweet  places 


THE    CASSIQUE    OF    ACCABEE.  227 

u  He  grew  to  be  forgotten  by  the  twain  ; 

Or  if  not  wholly  by  the  woman,  she 
Ne'er  spoke  of  him, — ne'er  look'd  for  him  again, 
Though  much  it  might  have  gladden'd  her  to  see  ; 
For  love  had  lost  its  flower, 
And  soon  there  came  an  hour, 
When  all  her  young  heart's  pleasure  grew  to  pain  ! 


"  The  first  sweet  flush  of  summer  dalliance  gone, 
The  first  most  precious  bloom  of  passion  o'er, 
Indifference  follow'd  in  the  heart  that  won, 

And  scorn  found  place  where  rapture  woke  no  more ; 
No  kindly  nurture  bless'd 
With  love  her  lonely  breast, 
And  soon  even  peace  had  fled  the  home  so  glad  before. 


"  And  scorn  grew  into  hate,  and  hate  to  wrath, 

And  wrath  found  speech  in  violence ; — his  arm 
Smote  the  unhappy  woman  from  his  path  ; — 
»  Submission  could  not  soothe,  nor  teal's  disarm, 
The  cruel  mood,  the  will, 
True  to  past  passions  still, 
Which  Love  and  Beauty  now,  no  more  sufficed  to  charm. 


"  The  profligate  husband,  reckless  of  her  woe, 

Her  meek  submission  and  her  misery, 
Prepared,  in  secret,  still  another  blow, 
And  bargain'd  for  the  sale  of  Accabee ; 
Already  had  he  drawn 
The  fatal  deed — had  gone, 
Resolved,  in  other  lands,  remote,  his  wife  to  flee. 


228  THE    C  A  S  S I  Q  U  E    OF     A  C  C  A  B  E  E . 

"  He  little  knew  that  eyes  were  on  his  flight, 

That  long  had  marked  his  deeds  ; — his  way  led  through 
The  umbrageous  groves  of  Eutaw  : — long  ere  night 
His  footsteps  to  the  white  man's  clearings  drew  ; — 
Exulting  in  the  dream, 
Successful,  of  his  scheme, 
He  hails  the  cottage-smokes  of  him  who  bought,  in  sight. 


"  But  now  a  voice  arrests  him  as  he  goes — 

Forth  starts  the  red  chief  from  the  covering  wood  ; 
At  once  he  knew  him  for  the  worst  of  foes  ; 

Guilt  quell'd  his  courage,  terror  froze  his  blood ; 
The  horse  is  stay'd — in  vain, 
He  jerks  the  extended  rein, 
Vainly  applies  the  spur,  and  showers  his  flanks  with  blows. 


"  Stern  was  the  summons — in  a  single  word — 

*  Down  !' — and  he  yielded  to  the  vigorous  hand  ; 
'  I  gave  thee  all !'  were  then  the  accents  heard — 
'  The  woman  from  my  bosom,  and  my  land  ; — 
I  warn'd  thee,  ere  I  went, 
Of  wrath  and  punishment, 
If  hair  upon  her  head,  in  wrath  was  ever  stirr'd. 


"  '  I  know  thee,  and  thy  deeds ;  and  thou  shalt  die !' 

'  Mercy !'  implored  the  profligate  in  vain. 
Vainly  he  struggles — vainly  seeks  to  fly — 

Even  as  he  strives,  the  hatchet  cleaves  his  brain. 
Quivering,  he  lies  beneath, 
While,  from  his  leathern  sheath, 
The  warrior  draws  his  h.afe,  and  coldly  scalps  the  slain. 


THE    CASSIQUE     OF    ACCABEE.  229 

"Another  night,  and  on  the  Accabee, 

Softly  the  moon  was  smiling  through  its  grove ; 
Yet  sad  the  woman  hail'd  its  light,  for  she 

No  longer  warm'd  with  hope,  or  glow'd  with  love : 
Grief,  and  a  wan  despair, 
Reign'd  in  her  soul  of  care, 
Whence  love,  expell'd  by  wrath,  had  long  been  forced  to  flee. 


"  She  crouch'd  beside  the  hearth  in  vacant  mood, 

Silence  and  woe  close  crouch'd  on  either  hand, — 
Life's  hope  all  baffled, — all  the  innocent  brood 
Of  joys,  that  once  had  crowded  at  command, 
Dead — gone  like  summer  flowers  ; 
Desolate  all  her  hours, 
Her  life  was  now  one  dread,  one  deathlike  solitude. 


"  With  dreary  gaze  she  watch'd  the  flickering  fire, 

Nor  mark'd  around  the  thickening  growth  of  gloom  ; 
She  sees,  unheeding,  the  bright  flame  expire, 
Nor  marks  the  fearful  aspect  in  her  room ; 
Beside  her  rest  the  brands — 
Tis  but  to  stretch  her  hands  : 
Alas !  her  desolate  soul  for  light  hath  no  desire. 

"  But  lo !  another  form,  beside  her  own, 

Bends  to  the  task ; — sudden,  the  resinous  pine 
Flames  up  ; — she  feels  she  is  no  more  alone ; 
She  sees  a  well-known  eye  upon  her  shine, 
And  hides  her  face,  and  cries — 
'  The  Chief !'     His  silent  eyes 
Still  saddening  o'er  the  shape  too  long  and  dearly  known. 


230  THE     CASSIQUE     OF    ACCABEE. 

" '  The  man  whom  thou  didst  wed,  will  never  more 

Lay  angry  hand  upon  thee — he  had  sold 
Thy  land,  and  fled  thee  for  another  shore ; 
But  that  I  wound  him  in  the  serpent's  fold, 
And  took  from  him  the  power 
That  had  usurp'd  thy  dower ; 
In  proof  of  what  I  tell  thee, — lo  !  behold !' 


"  Thus  speaking,  he,  beside  her,  on  the  floor, 

Cast  down  the  white  man's  written  instrument ; 
Sign'd,  seal'd,  and  witness'd ;  framed  with  legal  lore ; 
Conveying — such  the  document's  intent — 
All  these  fair  groves  and  plains, 
The  Accabee  domains, 
To  one,  of  kindred  race,  whose  name  the  paper  bore. 


"  And  she  had  sign'd  it,  with  unwilling  hand, 

Ignorant  of  its  meaning,  but  in  dread ; 
Obedient  to  her  tyrant's  fierce  command, 

While  his  arm  shook  in  threat'ning  o'er  her  head ; 
'Twas  in  that  very  hour, 
His  blow,  with  brutal  power, 
Had  stricken  her  to  the  earth,  where  long  she  lay  as  dead. 


"  He  little  dream'd  that  the  avenger  near, 

Beheld  him,  and  prepared  his  punishment ; 
You  ask,  Why  came  he  not  to  interfere, 

And  stay,  ere  yet  was  wrought  the  foul  intent ; 
Enough,  the  red  man  knows 
His  time  to  interpose : — 
Sternly  his  hour  he  takes,  with  resolute  will  unbent. 


THE    CASSIQUE    OF    ACCABEE.  231 

"  Unerring,  we  have  seen  him  in  pursuit — 

Unsparing,  we  have  seen  him  in  his  blow ; — 
His  mission  was  not  ended  ;  and,  though  mute, 
He  stood  surveying  her,  who,  cowering  low, 
Crept  humbly  to  his  feet, 
As  seeming  to  entreat, — 
He  had  another  task,  which  found  the  warrior  slow. 


"  But  he  was  firm : — '  This  paper  is  your  own, — 

Another  proof  is  mine,  that  you  will  be 
Safe  from  the  blows  of  him  so  lately  known  ; 
He  hath  his  separate  lands  henceforth  from  me ; 
Ample  the  soil  I  gave, 
Beside  the  Eutaw's  wave ; 
In  token  of  my  truth — this  bloody  scalplock  see.' 


"  Then  shriek'd  the  unhappy  woman  with  affright, 

Revolting  at  the  trophy,  dripping  yet, 
That,  down  upon  the  paper,  in  her  sight, 
With  quiet  hand,  the  haughty  chieftain  set ; 
'  Spare  me  !    Oh,  spare  !'  she  cries  : 
And  crouching,  with  shut  eyes, 
Backward  she  crept,  as  if  she  safety  sought  in  flight. 

" '  Fear  nothing !'  said  the  chieftain ;  '  'twas  for  thee, 

I  brought  this  bloody  token  of  my  truth, 
To  show  thee,  from  this  moment,  thou  art  free 
To  the  possession  of  thy  life  and  youth  ; 
Still  hast  thou  beauty ;  still 
Thy  heritage — thy  will ; 
Go,  seek  thy  kindred  pale,  secure  of  love  and  ruth. 


232  THE     CASSIQUE    OF    ACCABEE. 

"  *  From  him,  who,  in  thy  thoughtlessness  of  heart, 

Thou  mad'st  a  master  over  thee,  I  save ; 
I  slew  thy  father — I  have  done  his  part, 

And  give  thee  wealth  more  ample  than  he  gave 
Henceforth,  thou  wilt  not  see 
The  Chief  at  Accabee  ; 
Beware  again  lest  passion  make  thee  slave. 


" '  I  leave  thee  now  forever !'     *  No  !'  she  cried  : 
*  Oh  !  take  me  to  thy  people ; — let  me  dwell 
Lone,  peaceful,  on  the  Edisto's  green  side, 

Which,  had  I  left  not,  I  had  still  been  well : — 
Forgive  me,  that  the  child, 
With  heart  both  weak  and  wild, 
Err'd,  in  not  loving,  where  she  might  have  loved  with  pride !' 

"  *  I  had  believed  thee  once ;  but  now,  too  late ! 

Henceforth  I  know  thee,  only  to  forget.' 
( Thou  canst  not !' — '  It  may  be,  that  thus  my  fate 
Hath  spoken  ;  but  my  resolute  will  is  set, 
In  manhood, — and  I  know, 
Though  all  of  life  be  woe, 
Thus  better — than  with  faithlessness  to  mate.' 


"  She  crouch'd  beneath  his  feet,  incapable 

Of  answer  to  that  speech  ;  and  his  sad  look, 
As  if  his  eyes  acknowledged  still  a  spell, 

One  long,  deep  survey  of  the  woman  took ; — 
She  still  unseeing  aught, 
Of  that  sad,  searching  thought, 
Which,  speaking  through  his  eye,  her  soul  could  never  brook. 


THE    CASSIQUE    OF    ACCABEE.  :. 

Sudden  as  spectre,  waving  wide  his  hand, 
He  parted  from  her  presence  : — He  was  gone, 
Into  the  shadows  of  that  forest  land  ; 

And,  desolate  now,  the  woman  lay  alone, — 
Crouching  beside  the  hearth, 
While  thousand  fears  had  birth, 
Haunting  her  thought  with  griefs  more  fearful  than  the  known. 


"  Our  story  here  is  ended.     Of  her  fate 

Nothing  remains  to  us,  but  that  she  sold, 
Of  Accabee,  the  beautiful  estate, 

And  sought  her  shelter  in  the  city's  fold ; 
The  purchaser,  meanwhile, 
Made  the  dark  forest  smile, 
And  crown'd  its  walks  with  works  most  lovely  to  behold. 


"  A  noble  dwelling  rose  amidst  the  trees, 

Fair  statues  crown'd  the  vistas — pathways  broke 
The  umbrageous  shadows, — and  sweet  melodies, 
Among  the  groves,  at  noon  and  morning  woke  ; — 
And  great  reserves  of  game, 
In  which  the  wild  grew  tame — 
And  pleasant  lakes,  by  art,  were  scoop'd  for  fisheries. 

"  Here  pleasure  strove  to  make  her  own  abode  ; 

She  left  no  mood  uncherish'd  which  might  cheer ; 
Through  the  grim  forests  she  threw  wide  the  road, 
And  welcomed  Beauty,  while  expelling  care  : 
Wealth  spared  no  toils  to  bless, 
And  still,  with  due  caress, 
Honor'd  the  daily  groups  that  sought  for  pastime  there. 


234  THE    CASSIQUE     OF    ACCABEE 

"  But  still  the  spot  was  haunted  by  a  grief ; — 
Joy  ever  sank  in  sadness  : — guests  depart ; 
A  something  sorrowful,  beyond  belief, 
Impairs  the  charms  of  music  and  of  art ; 
Till  sadly  went  each  grace, 
And,  as  you  see  the  place, 
Gradual  the  ruin  grew,  a  grief  to  eye  and  heart. 

"  The  native  genius,  born  in  solitude, 

Is  still  a  thing  of  sorrow  ;  and  his  spell, 
Whatever  be  the  graft  of  foreign  mood, 

Maintains  its  ancient,  sorrowful,  aspect  well ; — 
Still  reigns  its  gloomy  lord, 
With  all  his  sway  restored, 
Lone,  o'er  his  barren  sceptre  doom'd  to  brood." 


Slow  sped  our  skiff  into  the  open  light, — 

The  billows  bright  before  us, — but  no 'more 
Rose  love's  sweet  ditty  on  our  ears  that  night ; — 
Silent  the  maid  look'd  back  upon  the  shore, 
And  thought  of  those  dark  groves, 
And  that  wild  chieftain's  loves, 
As  they  had  been  a  truth  her  heart  had  felt  of  yore. 


ALBERT   AND    ROSALIE 


SHE  sat  beside  the  lattice  and  look'd  forth 
Upon  the  waters.     A  smooth  stream  went  by, 
Playfully  murmuring,  and  along  its  banks 
Making  a  pleasant  music.     'Twas  the  hour, 
When,  shooting  through  the  light  wave,  his  canoe 
Bore  him  that  loved  her  ;  when,  in  other  days, 
Her  own  love,  deeply  hallo w'd  by  its  truth, 
Was  sanctified  by  hope  and  trust  in  heaven — 
In  heaven  and  him  !     It  was  the  hour,  and  there, 
The  waters  lay  in  light — the  silvery  light 
Of  the  May  moon,  that  gliding  through  the  trees, 
Pour'd  down  her  rich  smile  on  them.     A  sweet  breeze 
Came  from  the  opposite  shore,  and  would  have  borne 
The  bird! ike  streamer  of  his  little  bark, 
And  made  her  sail  swell  out,  as  if  it  knew 
And  felt  the  love-assigned  office.    ''Twas  the  hour, 
But  still  he  came  not.     A  sad  servitor 
That  ever  watch'd  her  heart,  and  had  a  look 
Of  frowning  sorrow,  and  was  named  Despair, 
Rebuked  her  eyes  that  look'd  for  him  in  vain, 
And  bade  her  hope  not.    Wherefore  look'd  she  then, 
Thus  ever,  and  still  earnestly  with  hope, 
That  seem'd  but  a  sweet  sorrow  ?     Who  shall  tell 
If  thought  was  in  that  fondness  ? — if  the  mind 


236  ALBERT    AND     ROSALIE. 

Went  with  the  unconscious  eye  ;  and,  in  that  glance 

Of  sad  abstraction,  if  the  expression  strong, 

Had  reason  for  its  guide  ?     It  was,  alas  ! 

But  the  sad  habit  of  her  form  that  now 

Kept  her  a  watcher.     Her  fond  eyes  look'd  forth, 

Unmonitor'd  by  mind,  from  memory  ! — 

She  saw  not  the  bright  waters — not  the  moon — 

JSTot  the  fair  prospect ! — All  was  vacancy, 

To  that  unheeding  mourner  !     She  had  gazed 

Till  all  grew  dark  before  her  ! — She  had  thought, 

Till  thought  had  swoll'n  to  madness  ! — She  had  felt, 

Till  feeling,  like  some  fever,  ate  away 

The  heart  it  fed  on. 

ii. 

'Twas  a  cruel  tale, 

Told  by  the  villagers,  of  an  early  love, 
And  childish  indiscretion  : — such  a  tale, 
As  erring  but  fond  natures,  aptly  leave 
In  every  valley  where  warm  spirits  dwell, 
And  sunny  maidens.     Rosalie  was  young — 
Lovely  as  young.     A  childish  excellence, 
Infantile  grace,  with  archness  intermix'd, 
Play'd  in  her  look,  and  sparkled  in  her  eye, 
Which  glow'd  with  ravishing  fires,  from  a  dark  orb, 
That  had  a  depth  like  heaven  !     A  cheek,  fair 
And  delicate  as  a  rose-leaf  newly  blown  ; — 
A  brow  like  marble — lofty  and  profuse, 
With  the  rich  brown  of  her  o'ergathering  hair  ! — 
These  were  her  beauties — nor  through  these,  alone, 
Was  she  held  worthy  to  be  sought  of  love 
In  frequent  worship.     The  rich,  rosy  lips, 
That  play'd  and  parted  ever  with  a  smile, 
Becoming,  with  naix'd  dignity  and  love, — 


ALBERT     AND     ROSALIE.  237 

Had  music  there  a  dweller.     Many  a  night, 

Her  wild  song,  o'er  those  waters,  silenced  them, 

And  their  rough  murmurs,  to  the  spell-bound  ears 

Of  her  enamor'd  hearers.     She  would  sing, 

As  if  song  were  an  element,  and  she, 

The  gay,  glad  bird,  just  fitted  to  extend 

Her  bright  wings  o'er  its  bosom  and  go  forth, — 

Bringing  rich  notes  to  earth  from  the  high  heaven, 

To  which  sweet  echoes  ever  bore  them  back  ! 

And  in  her  rustic  home,  and,  with  the  crowd 

That  came  about  her  ever,  'twas  a  sway, 

Queen-like  and  undisputed,  which  she  bore, 

And  which  they  gave  her  ; — nor,  in  this  abused  ; — 

The  power  she  wielded  had  its  spells  in  love, 

And  gentleness,  and  true  thought — never  in  scorn, 

Or  any  wayward  impulse  or  caprice, 

Solicitous  to  humble  or  deny  : — 

The  queen  of  loveliness,  she  was  no  less 

The  queen  of  modesty  and  maiden  grace, 

Unchallenged  in  each  subject's  heart,  and  there, 

Having  a  home  or  palace,  at  her  will. 

in. 

What  wonder,  then,  if  many  lovers  came 
To  woo  that  maiden  ?     Never  maiden  yet 
Had  sway  like  hers  in  the  secluded  vale, 
Where  stood  her  dwelling.     From  afar  and  near 
Came  the  tall  rustics  in  their  Sunday  garb 
To  see  and  seek  her.     From  the  distant  hills, 
Where  fame  and  fond  report  had  made  her  known, 
They  came  on  mix'd  pretences.     Having  seen, 
Their  feet  grew  fasten'd,  and  their  amorous  hearts 
Dissolved  away  to  weakness,  while  they  bow'd, 
And  spoke  their  several  loves, — but  spoke  in  vain. 


238  ALBERT    AND     ROSALIE. 

Not  proud,  Jior  coy,  the  maiden  yet  was  choice, 

And  sought  a  kindred  spirit  for  her  own, 

When  she  should  give  her  heart,— and  him  she  found-* 

So  thought  she  fondly — for  the  youth  was  fair — 

A  gentle  youth,  to  whom  a  better  sphere, 

And  an  occasional  travel  in  far  lands, 

Had  taught  the  polish  of  the  citizen, 

Subduing  the  rude  manners,  and  bestowing 

The  grace  of  social  life — the  symmetry 

Of  movement  and  expression,  while  it  takes 

The  sharp,  rough  edge  from  language,  and  refines, 

To  unobtrusive  sweetness,  the  discourse, 

That  soothes  the  ear  it  never  should  assail. 

He  had  departed  from  his  native  home, 

Leaving  his  father's  hills  in  early  youth, 

When  Rosalie — herself  a  native  there — 

Was  yet  a  child.     Returning,  she  wras  then 

A  child  no  longer.     With  the  rest  he  saw, 

And,  with  a  better  fortune  than  the  rest, 

He  sought  her  out  and  wooed  her.     'Tis  a  tale — 

A  chronicle  of  sorrow,  not  of  shame, 

Sacred  in  memory,  in  the  heart  secure, 

And  sweetly  dear,  though  sad  ! 

IV. 

We  linger  now, — 

We  would  not  hasten  in  our  narrative, 
To  its  sad  close.     But  on  their  early  loves, — 
The  hours  when  they  were  happy — with  no  thought 
To  promise  the  thick  sorrow  that  o'ercame 
And  tore  their  hearts  asunder — let  us  pause. 
She  loved  but  him  of  all  the  valley  round, 
She  saw  but  him  of  all  the  suitors  there, 
She  heard  but  his  discourse,  knew  but  his  form, 


ALBERT    AND    ROSALIE.  239 

And  had  no  thought,  no  feeling  for  the  rest !    • 
The  sunset  hour  still  brought  him  o'er  the  lake, — 
The  sunset  hour  still  found  her  watching  there, 
Where  now  we  see  her.     From  the  opposite  shore, 
Her  eye  could  note  his  little,  light  canoe, 
When  first  emerging  from  the  reedy  banks, 
It  broke  the  quiet  waters  into  smiles. 
She  saw  him  trim  his  sail,  and  every  change 
Of  movement  she  discerned ;  and,  through  her  heart, 
Seeing,  as  through  a  glass,  where  every  hope 
Had  lent  some  light,  and  every  love  gave  power, 
She  thought  the  very  smile  upon  his  lips 
Grew  visible  to  her  gaze.     Thus,  day  by  day, 
For  months,  in  a  sweet  silence  of  discourse, 
They  moved  and  met  each  other  with  their  hearts, 
Having  no  other  speech.     But  the  time  came, — 
Too  soon,  perchance,  though  slow  to  youthful  hope, — 
When  love  should  shape  his  language.     'Twas  an  hour, 
In  early  spring — Love's  season  and  the  flowers', 
Season  of  budding  eyes,  and  blessing  hearts  ! — 
Nature  was  in  her  sweet  virginity. 
When  they  walk'd  forth  i'  the  garden.     Lovely  buds, 
Clustering  in  leafy  cells,  gave  promise  meet 
Of  untold  fruitage — brightly  the  sun  shone, 
Yet  inoppressive,  for  his  slanting  rays 
Came  broken  through  the  forest.     All  around, 
Young  flower  and  humming  insect,  bird  and  breeze, 
Partaking  of  youth's  happiest  harmonies, 
Murmur'd  in  gladness  to  the  delicate  sense 
That  flowed  in  its  fresh  feelings.     Rosalie 
Hung  on  her  lover's  arm,  yet  undeclared 
His  passion  for  her.     The  young  maiden's  heart 
Gush'd  with  its  sweet  o'erfulness,  while  the  tear 
Of  an  unstudied  joy  upon  her  cheek, 

6 


240  A  L  B  E  li  T     A  N  I)     K  O  S  A  L  1  E  . 

Trembled  HI  light,  and  then  exhaled  away 

In  odor, — till  he  grew  a  worshipper, 

Yet  had  no  words,  save  in  his  eloquent  eyes, 

Which  spoke  that  language  of  sublimer  love, 

Too  pure  for  common  syllables,  too  like 

The  high  devotion  of  an  innocent  heart, 

Looking  through  gentle  fears,  and  blessing  hopes, 

As  to  its  God !     Together  they  walk'd  on, 

Till  the  groves  thicken Yl,  and  the  silent  trees, 

Closed  round  them  like  a  dwelling  ;  with  no  eye 

To  peer  into  that  holy  home  of  love, 

Scaring  its  trembling,  tried  inhabitants  ! 

He  spoke — he  spoke  at  last !     He  spoke  of  love, 

And  the  breeze  echoed  him,  arid  murmur'd  "love;" 

And  every  flower  and  leaf  had  a  sweet  name, 

Love-written,  upon  them  ;  and  a  print  of  hearts, 

United,  grew,  like  flower  and  leaf  together, — 

And  Rosalie  and  Albert,  thence,  were  one  ! 


Silent  before  so  long,  their  prison'd  souls 
Then  gush'd  in  mutual  language,  and  pour'd  forth, 
In  homage  to  each  other,  the  fond  thoughts, 
The  dreams  by  night,  the  fancies  through  the  day, 
Which  had  possess'd  and  purified  them  long. 
Their  thoughts  were  so  much  music,  and  they  spoke, 
In  sweetest  measures ; — even  as  the  bird  just  'scaped 
From  the  close  caging  of  some  gentle  dame, 
Showing  its  freedom's  consciousness  in  song 
Not  less  than  flight.     Love  was  their  monitor — 
Love  their  companion — Love  their  pleasant  charge. 
In  Rosalie  it  spoke  in  gentlest  sighs, 
A  broken  language, — in  a  start  of  song, 


ALBERT    AND     ROSALIE. 

Capricious,  wild,  that  suddenly  came  forth, 
Even  as  the  playful  robin  from  the  brake, 
As  suddenly  retiring  into  shade, 
And  trembling  at  his  own  audacity. 
She  was  a  sweet  dependant,  and  her  arm 
On  Albert's,  hung  so  fondly — and  her  head 
Droop'd  with  her  joy,  like  some  dew-laden  flower 
Upon  his  bosom ;  and  he  loved  the  more 
For  such  dependence,     Noble  and  erect, 
He  clasp'd  her  to  his  heart,  and  his  eye  gleam'd 
With  pride  and  pleasure  while  surveying  hers. 
His  sweet,  .melodious  voice,  deep,  organ-like, 
Went  to  her  heart  at  every  utter'd  word, 
Making  his  love  a  power,  whose  sway,  secure, 
And  conscious  of  its  own  security, 
Forbore  to  wrong,  and  with  exaction  sweet, 
Solicited  the  boon,  as  't  were  a  boon, 
When,  in  her  heart,  the  spelling  passion  there 
Proclaim'd  it  his  own  right.     He  was  a  man 
Among  the  thousand !     Unassuming,  he 
Might  yet  assume,  unquestion'd.     Gentleness, 
And  a  strange  strength — a  calm,  o'erruling  strength, 
Were  mix'd  within  him  so,  that  neither  took 
Possession  from  the  other — neither  rose 
In  mastery  or  in  passion ;  but  still  grew 
Harmoniously  together. — In  his  strength, 
The  mighty  oak  had  likeness — while  gentleness, 
Wound  round  him  like  the  rosy  parasite, 
The  flush  spring  gives  it,  wreathing  its  great  might 
With  sweetest  color,  and  adorning  grace. 
His  soul,  refined  beyond  the  rustic  world, 
Had  yet  no  city  vices.     He  had  kept, 
Its  whiteness  unprofaned,  and  he  could  lift 
VOL.  i.  11 


242  ALBERT    AND    ROSALIE. 

His  heart  to  heaven  in  faith — his  eye  on  man. 

Having  no  fear — his  hope  to  Rosalie, 

As  to  an  object  of  abiding  love, 

Without  one  taint  of  base  or  sinful  thought, 

VI. 

True  joy,  still  born  of  heaven,  is  blessM  with  wings, 
And,  tired  of  earth,  it  plumes  them  back  again, 
And  so  we  lose  it.     A  sad  change  came  o'er 
The  fortunes  of  that  pair,  whose  loves  have  been 
Our  theme  of  story : — a  sad  change,  that  oft 
Comes  o'er  love's  fortunes  in  all  lands  and  homes, 
Nor  spares  the  humblest.     Rosalie  was  young 
In  fancy,  as  in  years.     Truly  she  loved, 
And  yet  not  wisely.     Had  her  heart  replied 
To  any  question  of  its  love  for  him, 
To  whom  she  pledged  it,  she  had  warmly  spoke 
For  its  devotion  ;  but  her  fancy,  quick, 
Roving,  and  playful,  was  not  yet  subdued 
To  that  sweet-tempered,  fond  exclusiveness, 

yVhich  shuts  out  every  object  from  the  thought, 
ave  of  that  one  to  whom  all  thought  is  given. 
The  early  train  of  her  admirers  gone — 
The  crowd  that  flatter'd  her  with  looks  and  words, 
That  gave  her  homage,  and  pronounced  her  praise, 
In  sweet  eulogium,  vanish'd, — she  grew  sad. 
The  praises  of  her  lover  were  in  looks, 
And  constant,  sweet  devotion — seldom  in  words  : — 
And  sometimes,  too,  he  spoke  her  chidingly, 
Though  still  in  truest  love.     He  spoke  to  her 
As  one  who  lived  forever  in  his  thought, 
A  part  of  him  and  it — the  dearest  part ; 
But  yet  he  spoke  her  truly, — with  no  burst 
Of  fraudulent  praise,  that  runs  away  with  truth, 


ALBERT    AND     ROSALIE. 

And  gives  habitual  error  place  for  sway, 

In  the  deluded  bosom.     Calm,  serene, — 

His  thoughts  were  clear  and  honest ;  and  his  words, 

Still  chosen  most  gently,  were  not  yet  disguised 

To  please  the  ear  of  tingling  vanity. 

Though  loving  him  beyond  all  other  men, 

She  would  have  had  him,  like  the  rest  that  came, 

A  flattering  wooer.     His  substantial  worth, 

She  valued  truly  ;  but,  not  yet  content, 

She  deem'd  it  might  be  mingled  with  those  sweets, — 

False  sweets  that  lead  to  sadness ! — which  were  dear 

To  youthful  fancy  and  a  thoughtless  heart ; — 

And,  in  the  wantonness  of  her  sportive  moods, 

Still  craving  this  frail  incense,  she  would  turn 

Capriciously  away,  when  most  he  sought 

Her  ear  and  presence  ;  and,  in  gayest  crowds, 

Lose  the  dear  hour  so  rich  in  love's  esteem, 

And  barter  truest  pleasures  and  noblest  thoughts, — 

Trifling  with  feelings  which  should  be  secure 

As  they  are  sacred, — for  the  idlest  game 

That  ever  butterfly  pursued  in  May. 

VII. 

Yet  did  he  not  reproach  her.     At  the  first 
He  gently  pray'd  that  she  might  live  for  him, 
And  know  and  love  him  better.     Much  he  strove 
To  teach  her,  that,  thus  bound  for  life  together, 
Her  study,  like  his  own,  should  be  to  make 
Her  heart  familiar  with  its  offices — 
Those  offices  of  sweet  domestic  love, 
Which  cannot  dream  of  gay  society, 
And  the  insidious  flattery  of  the  crowd 
Having  no  fireside  duties.     Fondly  still, 
With  indirect  speech,  he  told  his  wishes  o'er, 


244  ALBEET    AND    EOS  A  LIE. 

And  whisper'd  counsels  such  as  love  might  hear, 

And  none  but  love  could  utter.     But  her  ear 

Turn'd  from  him,  with  a  playful,  sad  caprice, 

And  she  would  leave  him, — or,  in  mood  more  wild, 

Reply  in  tones  impatient, — till  at  last 

The  youth  grew  into  sadness,  as  he  fear'd, 

When  they  were  wedded,  that  her  love  might  change 

Even  into  hatred,  as  he  could  not  bring 

His  nature  to  a  level  with  the  herd 

Whose  flatteries  so  misled  her.     He  grew  sad, 

And  yet  he  sought  her  ;  still  entreating  her 

With  his- own  love,  which  was  all  earnestness, 

Not  to  make  forfeit  of  the  better  faith, 

The  substance  for  the  shade,  and  sacrifice, 

For  the  capricious  freedom  of  the  hour, 

The  holy,  hopeful,  best  security, 

That  grows  in  heart  of  confidence  alone. 

Oh !  very  earnest  was  he  in  these  prayers  ; 

His  soul,  the  very  safety  of  his  being, 

Were  treasured  in  that  passion  !     Few  his  friends, — 

An  orphan  without  kindred  ;= — slight  the  ties 

That  bound  him  to  all  others.     None  of  strength 

Did  he  acknowledge,  save  the  one  with  her ; 

And  that  was  his  whole  life.     Wonder  not,  then, 

He  trembled  at  her  sad  infirmity : — 

The  loss  of  Rosalie  was  loss  of  all. 

VIII. 

One  night  there  was  a  bridal  in  the  vale, 
A.  rustic  bridal.     Mirth  and  pleasant  cheer, 
veet  music  and  gay  lights,  laughter  and  glee, 
Assembled  young  and  old.     All  that  could  make 
A  dear  occasion  dearer,  mingled  then, 
And  the  vale  rang  with  joy.     Our  lovers  came, 


ALBEET    AND    ROSALIE.  245 

And  revell'd  with  the  rest.     Never  before 

Had  Rosalie  look'd  lovelier.     'Mid  the  crowd, 

She  was  beheld  of  all  the  crowd  alone — 

She  was  the  bright  star  to  which  every  eye 

Seemed  turn'd  as  in  devotion — the  gay  light 

Of  every  fancy — the  fair  queen  who  sway'd 

O'er  every  heart,  even  then,  as  in  the  time 

When  all  were  wooers,  and  no  heart,  preferred, 

Had  bound  her  to  itself.     In  her  sweet  song, 

They  gather'd  round,  and  had  fond  memories 

Of  hours  when  hope  was  theirs.     They  praised  her  strain? 

And  watch'd  the  eloquent  pleasure  in  her  eye 

That  said  their  praise  was  sweet.     From  song  to  song 

They  led  her  with  beguiling  flatteries, 

And  when  the  dance  began,  they  crowded  round, 

Contending  for  her  hand. 

There  was  one  dance, 

Brought  from  a  foreign  land — a  winning  dance, 
Whose  sweet  voluptuous  twinings  witch  the  heart 
Into  a  sad  forgetfulness,  and  arouse 
Strange  fevers  and  wild  fancies  in  the  blood. 
,'Twas  from  a  land  where  vice,  .in  many  a  form, 
Had  sapped  society,  and  torn  away 
The  pillars  of  religion  ;  where  the  name 
Of  wife  is  but  another  name  for  all 
Of  shame  and  prostitution  ;  where  the  pride 
Of  virtue  is  unknown ;  where  character 
Is  but  a  thing  of  barter  and  stale  use, 
And  fashion  makes  a  crime  necessity. 

IX. 

"  You  will  not  mingle,  dearest  Rosalie, 
Among  these  waltzers  ?"     It  was  thus  he  spoke, 
As  he  beheld  the  suitors  for  her  hand 


246  ALBERT    AND     EOSALIE. 

Crowding  around,  impatient  to  enwrap 
Her  form  in  the  impassion' cl,  free  caress 
Of  that  voluptuous  motion. 

"  And  why  not  ?". 
Straightway  she  answer'd. 

"  Was  it  not  your  thought, 
No  less  than  mine,  dear  Rosalie,  that  this  dance 
r  Better  belong'd  to  races  like  th'  Italian, 
\  Than  a  frank,  earnest  people  such  as  ours, 
1  In  whom  simplicity,  the  soul  of  virtue, 
/  Forbids  the  goad  of  passion,  lest  we  drive 
I,  The  blood  to  fearful  phrensies  !     Didst  thou  not 
Join  with  me  in  the  thought,  that  the  pure  heart 
Must  shrink  from  the  embrace  with  stranger  forms  ;- 
Embrace  so  free  as  this — as  if  each  touch 
Took  something  from  its  purity  ; — for  virtue 
Is  like  the  down  upon  the  peach  ; — the  flush 
Of  beauty  on  the  flower  ; — the  golden  lustre 
That  flecks  with  delicate  variety 
The  slight  wing  of  the  butterfly ; — one  touch 
Being  fatal  to  the  excellence,  whose  glory 
Lives  in  its  very  unapproachableness. 
The  barriers  of  opinion  in  a  people, 
Belong  to  their  necessity  and  nature — 
Subject  them  to  the  abuse  of  foreign  custom, 
And  we  make  forfeit  all  security. 
Custom  makes  barriers  still  for  chastity, — 
O'erthrow  these  barriers,  idle  though  they  seem, 
And  Passion  saps  the  citadel. — Dear  Rosalie, 
Thou  wilt  not  join  these  waltzers  ?" 

"  But  I  will !" 

Thus  the  capricious  damsel,  to  the  youth, 
Who  earnestly  besought  her,  still  replied — 
As,  turning  from  him,  she  bestow'd  her  hand 


ALBERT    AND    ROSALIE.  247 

On  one  who  seized  it  with  triumphant  joy, 

Having  the  victory — for  he  had  urged 

The  cause  of  that  fond  movement ;  and,  to  her, 

The  pledged  wife  of  another,  had  discuss'd 

The  question  of  that  nice  propriety, 

Which  woman  must  not  argue,  and  yet  feel ! 

"  But  I  will  dance  it,  Albert,  as  I  please, 
Or  not,  if  so  it  please  me.     And  why  not  ? — 
I  am  not  yet  a  bond-woman  methinks, 
And  such  constraint  as  this,  would  best  beseem 
A  petty  household  tyranny, — the  rule 
Of  modern  Blue  Beard,  than  the  free  regard 
Of  one  who  seeks  for  sympathies,  not  slaves." 

And,  with  these  words,  she  join'd  the  whirling  group, 
While  Albert  turn'd'away  and  left  the  hall 

x. 

Next  morning  came  a  letter  to  the  maid, 
And  this  its  language  : 

"  Dearest  Rosalie, — 

Still  dear,  though,  from  this  moment,  I  resign 
All  claim  to  call  thee  so  exclusively — 
I  leave  thee.     When  this  scrawl  thou  read'st,  my  feet 
Shall  be  beyond  these  mountains — other  climes 
Will  soon  receive  me,  and  on  distant  waves, 
The  foreign  bark  shall  bear  me, — still  from  thee. 
Farewell — farewell. 

"  Oh,  it  had  been  my  thought, 
That,  from  the  moment  thou  didst  give  thyself 
To  my  fond  pleadings,  I  should  cease  to  be 
What  I  am  now — a  weary  wanderer  ! 

"  That  hope  is  gone  forever.     Thou  hast  said 
The  words  which  have  unlink'd  our  mutual  hearts, 
They  being  no  longer  kindred.     Thou  hast  broken 


248  ALBEKT    AND     ROSALIE. 

The  flowery  twines  of  love,  in  thoughtlessness — • 
Ah  !  may  it  be  a  sorrow  but  to  one  ! 

".And  I  must  bear  that  sorrow.     Thou  to  me, 
Wast  all — art  all !     I  may  not  hope  again, 
To  find  thee  in  another — and  I  dare  not 
Seek  for  another  in  thee.     Those  cruel  words — 
Why  didst  thou  speak  them  1 — they  have  doom'd  us  botb 
To  isolation  ; — me,  to  the  worse  doom, 
Of  hopelessness.     Tis  nothing  now  I  live  for — 
Yet  never  heart  could  love  thee,  as  did  mine. 
And  still  I  love  thee — love  thee  recklessly, 
As  loving  thee  in  vain.     Henceforth,  I  live, 
As  one  denied.     I  cannot  love  another — 
I  would  not  praj  such  freedom.     I  have  not 
The  elastic  temper  of  the  froward  boy, 
To  change  capricious  with  the  monthly  moon, 
Nor  share  the  blight  with  each  sweet  star  that  sets, 
My  mind  is  too  subdued — my  character, 
Too  fix'd — too  firm  !     I  must  be  resolute 
In  love,  as  in  all  other  qualities, — 
Having  no  changing  moods — earnest  in  all,. 
Unvarying  as  the  needle,  and  as  true, 
Though  the  storms  howl.     Such  is  my  nature  now. 
Vicissitude  has  tried  me — poverty 
Counsell'd,  and  taught  me  due  stability — 
Affliction  chastened  ;  travel,  here  and  there, 
*Mong  strangers  in  far  wilds  and  realms  unknown, 
Taught  me  their  several  sorrows,  and  prepared  me, 
To  better  love  the  quiet  walks  of  home  I 

"  I  have  no  home.     It  had  been  in  thy  heart, 
But  thou  denied'st  it  lodgment — better  pleased 
To  make  a  tenant  there  of  idlest  moods, 
Enjoyments  light  and  worthless,  when  in  mine, 
Thou  hadst  a  temple — pure,  inviolate, 


ALBERT    AND     ROSALIE.  240 

Sacred  to  kJTe— attd  strong — sacred  to  thee  ! — 
Would  thine  had  been  to  me  but  thus  devote, 
I  then  had  been  a  hermit.     In  its  cells, 
My  thoughts  and  feelings  had  been  saintly  forms, 
Filling  each  several  niche.     Morning  and  night, 
Had  found  me  there  a  doting  worshipper, 
And  I  had  hung  it  round  with  sweetest  store, 
The  dearest  flowers  of  love — the  purest  sweets 
That  follow  young  enjoyment,  and  that  make, 
For  twin  hearts,  of  the  gloomy  caves  of  earth, 
A  happy  home  like  heaven. 

"  Thou  hast  decreed, 

And  all  these  dreams  are  vanish'd.     I  would  be 
Thy  tyrant,  Rosalie  ! — ah,  happy  she 
Who  loves  the  gentle  tyranny  of  truth. 
Thou  wouldst  not  be  a  bond-woman  ! — dear  to  me, 
The  sweet  bond-service  I  had  pledged  to  thee. 
Thou'dst  do  or  not,  as  so  it  pleasured  thee — 
Ah,  me  !  how  different  from  thy  thought  was  mine  ! 
To  do  thee  pleasure — ay,  at  mine  own  pain, — 
Was  sure  to  be  miy  sweetest  pleasure  still ; — 
And  to  make  slaves  of  my  best  sympathies, — 
Slaves  in  thy  service, — seem'd  to  my  poor  heart, 
Their  happiest  office. 

"  We  have  differ'd  much— 

Too  much  for  love  !     If  these  be  thoughts  of  mine, 
And  thou  dost  scorn  them,  having  thoughts  unlike, — 
We  are  not  fit  for  each  other  !     We  must  part — 
And  it  is  wisdom  !     When  I  gave  my  love, 
And  pledged  my  best  affections  unto  thee — 
I  pledged  thee  what,  next  to  thy  sacred  love, 
I  valued  more  than  all  the  world  beside. 
Thou  hast  not  so  esteem'd  my  offering — 
Thou  hast  not  so  esteem'd  my  principles, 
11* 


250  ALBERT    AND     ROSALIE. 

Nor  yet  raaintain'd  thine  own,  as  that  we  should 
Keep  bound  with  true  respect,  and  mutual  pride  : — 
'Tis  well  we  part. 

"  Yet  think  not,  Rosalie — 
The  wayward,  sad  caprice  of  tne  last  night, 
Sole  cause  of  my  resolve.     I  might  have  sigh'd 
And  sorrow'd  o'er  that  error,  yet  forgiven  : — 
The  sin  lies  deeper.     When  thou  show'st  another, 
That  difference  grows  betwixt  thy  heart  and  mine, 
Thou  dost  invite  a  foreign  arbitration — 
Thou  makest  our  secret  thought  a  public  thing, 
And  to  the  prying  eye,  and  busy  tongue 
Of  peevish  envy,  and  a  tattling  scorn, 
Thou  dost  unveil  the  sacred,  vestal  fire. 
Which  the  mysterious  love  design'd  for  us — 
For  those  who  love  alone  ! 

"  If,  in  my  heart, 

Or  in  my  deed,  or  language,  I  had  done 
A  wrong  to  thee  or  thine — where  shouldst  thou  seek 
Arbitrament  ? — where  carry  up  thy  cause, 
In  fond  appeal  ? — where  clamor  for  redress  ? — 
Where,  but  in  my  heart ! — in  our  secret  shade, 
In  sacred  moments,  when,  to  love  devote, 
We  met  in  mutual  fondness !     There,  hadst  thou  come, 
And  said,  as  late  in  public  thou  didst  say, 
'  Thou  art  my  tyrant — thou  wouldst  'slave  me  quite, 
Make  me  thy  bond-woman,  and  of  sympathies 
Generous  and  freely  given,  make  wretched  slaves  !' — 
Ah,  Rosalie  !  hadst  thou  but  thought  of  this, 
I  had  not  now — but  let  it  pass— no  more, — 
It  is  all  idle  now  ! 

"  Once  more,  farewell ! 
Be  happy,  and  forget  me,  Rosalie  ; — 
And  shouldst  thou  love  another,  let  my  words 


ALBERT    AND    ROSALIE.  251 

Sink  in  thy  memory,  so  that  thou  shalt  say 
Nothing  in  rashness — so  that  ye  may  keep 
The  troth  between  ye  as  a  sacred  thing*, 
Beyond  the  gaze  of  the  herd,  beyond  its  speech, 
Beyond  its  judgment ! — value  it  beyond 
The  moment-pleasure  always,  till  thy  heart, 
Shall  grow  into  a  kindred  life  and  thought, 
With  him  to  whom  thou  giv'st  it. 

"And  I  pray, — 

'Twill  be  no  wrong  to  him,  dear  Rosalie — 
That,  in  thy  happier  moments,  when  with  him, 
Thou  joy'st  in  life's  most  dear  realities, — 
The  pleasant  fireside,  the  cheerful  friend, 
The  gladsome  child,  and  the  indulgent  lord, — 
Thou  wilt  bestow  me  one  sad  memory — 
One  blessing — and  forgive  me,  that,  in  thus 
Tearing  myself  away  from  thee  and  life, 
Perchance,  I  wound  thy  pride,  or  touch  thy  heart, 
With  unavoidable  pain.     Forgive  me  this, 
And  other  errors,  as,  this  dreary  night, 
When  all  is  sleepless  sorrow  at  my  heart, 
I  do  forgive  thee,  who  art  cause  of  all ! 
Farewell — farewell."     And  thus  the  letter  closed. 


She  had  no  tears — no  language.     From  her  lips 
There  broke  no  sound  of  sorrow,  but  her  eye, 
As  if  her  sense  yet  lack'd  the  news  it  brought, 
Did  reperuse  that  fatal  messenger, 
In  fear  and  hope.     A  little  while  she  paused, 
And  then  she  sought  her  chamber,  with  no  word 
To  those  around.     She  had  no  strength  for  speech, 
And  did  not  dare,  in  the  uncertain  mood 
Of  her  sad  spirit,  to  look  up  and  meet 


252  ALBERT    AND    KOSALIE. 

The  curious  eyes  that 'watcliM  her.     Much  they  sought, 

By  various  questions  and  inquisitive  glance, 

To  learn  her  secret ; — for  the  tale  was  known — 

How  soon  love's  errors  and  misfortunes  grow 

The  pastime  of  the  cold  and  common  crowd  1 — 

That  Albert  had  departed  from  the  vale, 

In  foreign  journey.     And  she  turn'd  away — 

She  sought  to  be  alone  with  her  own  heart, 

And  long  and  sad  their  secret  conference. 

Her  heart  rebuked  itself,  her  mind  rebuked, 
And  all  her  feelings,  self- retributive, 
Reproach'd  her  with  her  error.     Long  the  strife 
They  waged  within  her  bosom,  till  she  sank 
In  prayer,  self-humbled — prostrate  on  the  floor, 
In  true  contrition. 

"  In  a  heedless  hour," 

'Twas  thus  she  murmur'd — "  in  a  heedless  hour, 
My  erring  spirit,  with  a  fond  caprice, 
Hath  sported  with  its  happiness  too  much  ; — 
Father,  forgive  me — be  the  punishment 
Forborne  in  mercy — teach  him  to  forgive, 
And,  oh,  restore  him  to  me.     In  my  grief 
I  do  not  heed  the  shame  of  such  a  prayer. 
Restore  him — teach  him  also  to  forgive." 

When  she  came  forth  again,  her  look  was  changed — 
Her  heart  had  been  subdued.     She  had  been  weak, 
She  was  now  strengthen'd ;  yet  her  sorrow  grew 
From  that  same  strengthening  ;  for  the  scales  were  gone 
That  dimm'd  her  vision  ;  and  the  full  extent 
Of  her  own  loss  grew  clear  and  palpable  ! 
Her  error  had  been  one  of  wantonness — 
The  last  that  love  hath  ever  yet  forgiven, 
True  love,  that  worships  with  a  lofty  heart 
And  even  mood.     She  felt  that  she  had  erred, 


ALBERT    AND    ROSALIE.  253 

And  fear'd  that  he — the  man  of  all  the  world 
Whom  most  she  loved — calm,  true,  and  resolute, 
Might  prove  inflexible.     No  trifler  he, 
Capricious  with  sweet  feelings  and  fond  ties, — 
But  stern,  unbending  in  his  principles  ! 
His  rigid  purpose,  noble  and  severe, 
Tenacious  pride,  and  changeless  character, 
Had  been  her  boast,  and  best  security  ! 
It  was  her  joy  that  no  caprice  of  mood, 
No  passing  influence  of  the  idle  time, 
No  popular  show,  no  clamor  from  the  crowd, 
Could  move  him,  erring,  from  the  path  of  right, 
Love's  path  and  hers, — those  sacred  principles, 
Which  make  all  happiness,  or  make  it  naught ! 
How  could  she  hope  a  change  in  such  a  man, 
How  love  him  still,  if  so  that  he  could  change, 
Even  to  pity  her  ?     Her  thought  approved, 
Though  her  heart  grieved,  his  rigor  and  resolve. 

XII. 

"  Ah,  sweet,"  cried  he,*  who,  of  a  thousand  sweets, 
Hath  sung  most  sweetly — "  sweet,  when  winter  frowns 
And  folds  his  ice-chain  round  us — sweet  to  dream 
Of  spring's  enamoring  charms,  and  gentle  reign ! 
The  hopeless  heart  thus  cherishes  the  form 
Of  that  which  was  a  hope ;  even  as  we  seal 
The  ashes  of  the  loved  one  in  an  urn 
We  keep  beside  us,  till  we  half  forget 
That  it  is  ashes.     Memory  thus  endows, 
Even  as  a  god,  the  insensate  clay  with  life, 
And  hallows  to  the  lone  one,  in  a  dream, 
The  old  sweet  faith,  the  perishM  love,  and  all, 
That  made  earth  worthy  to  its  worshipper  ! 
*  Rousseau. 


254:  ALBEET    AND    ROSALIE. 

But  if  hope  come  not,  in  alliance  close 

With  that  creative  genius,  till  we  think 

The  past  may  be  the  future — if  it  be 

That  memory  comes  alone  ! — no  guardian  she, 

But  a  stern  tyrant,  taught  in  cruel  arts, 

And  sleepless  as  the  agony  of  guilt." 

It  was  a  sweet  hope,  counsell'd  her  to  hope 

Against  conviction. 

"  He  will  come  again, — 
'Tis  but  awhile — he  cannot  long  forbear — 
He  must  forgive  me,  as,  so  help  me  heaven, 
I  had  forgiven  him  even  crueller  wrongs, 
And  harsher  words,  than  these." 

He  did  not  come ! — 

That  night — the  next — the  next — and  weeks,  went  by, 
Till  hope  grew  sad  and  sicken'd  in  her  heart, 
And  on  her  face  a  visible  hand  was  laid, 
As  of  a  burning  grief,  a  sleepless  woe, 
That  would  not  be  appeased. 

And  soon  her  friends 

Beheld  the  change  upon  her,  and  they  spoke 
Harshly  of  Albert :  then  she  chided  them 
Most  sadly  into  silence,  and  forbade 
That  they  should  speak  again  upon  her  griefs. 
Still  was  she  not  ungrateful  for  the  care 
That  sought  to  comfort ;  and,  as  day  by  day, 
Her  face  grew  paler  and  her  step  more  slow, 
Her  heart  became  more  gentle  than  its  wont, 
And  with  a  meekness,  dovelike,  and  from  heaven, 
She  won  a  fresher  love  from  all  that  knew. 

XIII. 

And  what  of  him — so  sudden  and  so  stern, 
So  quick  of  apprehension,  so  resolved, 


ALBERT    AN  I)    ROSALIE.  255 

So  little  merciful  to  his  own  heart, 

So  stern  a  judge  of  hers — what  now  of  him  ? 

What  art  may  paint  his  feelings  to  the  sense, 

What  eye  perceive  them,  as,  that  fatal  night, 

He  fled  the  insensate  revel !     He  felt  crush'd, 

And  the  devoted  feelings  of  his  heart, 

So  long  her  homagers,  now  all  recall'd, 

Came  home  rebellious  from  that  sweeter  realm, 

Where  they  had  spent  the  hours  so  joyously. 

They  came  to  torture,  and  he  fled  with  them, 

Even  as  a  fugitive — he  fled/rom  them, 

Or  strove  to  fly ;  but  they  pursued  him  close, 

And  tore  him  as  he  fled !     In  foreign  lands 

He  made  himself  a  home — if  that  may  be 

A  home,  which  is  a  prison-house  and  scourge ! 

He  made  himself  new  comrades,  day  by  day, 

And  fled  from  each  in  turn.     He  still  went  on, 

And  sought  new  dwellings,  only  to  behold 

Smiles  change  to  frowns — seeking  new  friends  and  flowers, 

To  find  the  one  grow  cold — the  other  die. 

The  curse  of  hopelessness,  and  a  premature  blight, 

Clung  to  him  in  his  journey,  and  the  doom 

Of  desolation  was  unchanged  to  him  ! — 

In  crowds,  in  camps,  in  cities,  and  in  fields, 

Where'er  he  fled,  whatever  home  he  sought, 

'Twas  written  still,  and  Albert  was  alone. 

XIV. 

A  bloody  war  waged  in  a  neighbor  land, 
And  the  perpetual  strife  in  his  own  mood 
There  led  him,  as  if  seeking  sympathy, 
To  fields  of  danger.     In  the  ranks  of  war 
He  soon  became  a  leader.     Fierce  his  ire, 
Hot  his  pursuit,  impetuous  in  assault, 


256  ALBERT    AND    ROSALIE, 

Desperate  in  daring,  and  in  perilous  strife 

Fatal  his  muscular  arm.     His  men  grew  fond, 

And  joy'd  in  such  a  leader.     Rash,  not  bold, 

He  hourly  sought  new  dangers.     Numbers  stood 

Between  him  and  his  aim.     He  counted  not 

The  dense  array,  but,  striking  right  and  left, 

He  plunged  where  foes  were  thickest.     "Walls  arose, 

High,  steep,  and  massive — ranging  cannon  poured 

The  rattling  shot,  like  hail,  upon  his  path, — 

But  did  not  stop  him.     Soon  the  walls  were  gained, 

The  banner  of  the  foe  beneath  his  foot, 

His  voice  in  victory  shouting. 

Where  was  death  ? 

The  foe  he  struck  could  answer,  but  the  chief, 
Who  sought  for  the  grim  enemy  in  vain, 
Went  through  the  strife  unharmed.     The  sharp  sword 
Swept  by  him  edgeless — the  directed  ball, 
Fatal,  if  sent  against  another  breast, 
Swerved  harmlessly  from  his, — his  doom  was  still 
To  live,  though  thousands  perish'd — but  alone ! 
And  she  ! — the  news  was  brought  her  that  he  fought 
The  battles  of  the  Texians.     That  he  stood 
Upon  the  Alamo's  walls,  when  the  fierce  tribes 
Of  Mexico,  in  numbers  overspread 
And  crowded  down  the  defenders — it  was  said, 
That,  striking  to  the  last,  each  stroke  a  death, 
The  gallant  chief  was  slain  by  many  hands, 
O'erpower'd,  not  conquer'd ; — and  the  tale  was  told 
By  one  most  thoughtless,  in  a  sudden  tone, 
That  went  even  like  an  ice-bolt  to  her  heart, 
And  froze  its  hope  forever.     From  that  hour, 
The  last  sad  change,  foretelling  all  the  rest, 
Came  o'er  the  maiden.     Much  they  strove  to  cheer, 
Or  chide,  her  prisoner-mood,  but  all  in  vain. 


ALBEKT    AND     ROSALIE.  257 

They  led  her  to  the  revel,  with  fond  hope, 
By  change  to  cheer  her ;  but  she  sicken'd  there ! — 
The  idle  song  of  love,  which  fill'd  her  ears, 
Was  then  a  sadness !     It  reminded  her 
Of  those  she  once  had  sung,  when  he  was  by 
A  listener  in  the  moonlight.     From  the  dance 
She  shrank  away  in  horror  ! — What  a  throng 
Of  images  most  fearful  came  with  it ! 
New  suitors  sought  her,  but  they  left  her  soon 
As  hopeless  as  herself!     Nothing  could  change 
The  spirit  of  that  mourner — nothing  move 
Her  sorrow  from  its  deep  devotedness ! — 
Life's  harmonies  had  gone,  its  strings  that  once, 
Beneath  Hope's  linger,  did  discourse  so  long, 
And  such  sweet  music,  gave  but  discord  forth, — 
Despair,  not  Hope,  the  one  musician  now ! 

xv. 

A  little  longer,  and  our  strain  is  done — 
The  story  of  love's  sorrow  is  soon  told, 
A  word  will  tell  it  always.     Rosalie, — 
Twas  but  a  few  days  when  we  saw  her  last, 
There,  sitting  by  her  lattice,  looking  forth 
Upon  these  waters.     See  the  lattice  now  ; — 
How  vacant,  and  how  cheerless  it  appears. 
We  seek  her  elsewhere.     But  a  week  ago, 
She  sat,  where  last  we  saw  her.     It  was  night, 
A  soft  and  mellow  evening,  calm  and  clear. 
A  thousand  beautiful  forms  were  in  the  sky, 
Light  forms  of  fleece,  that  hung  around  the  moon, 
Like  robes  of  regal  splendor  ; — a  sweet  breath 
Of  perfume  fill'd  the  air,  and  pleasant  sounds, 
Of  winds  and  waters  meeting,  rose  aloft, 
In  harmony  to  the  spirit. 


258  ALBERT    AND    ROSALIE. 

"  The  guitar" — 

Feebly,  to  one  who  tended  her,  she  spoke, 
"  Bring  it,  I  pray  thee  :" — 

And  the  damsel  brought 
The  well-known  instrument,  so  cherish'd  once 
When  he  was  by,  and  yet  untouch'd  so  long. 
She  play'd  a  soft,  prelusive,  pensive  air, 
And  then  the  notes  grew  wanton.     Fitfully, 
Shadows  of  ancient  melodies  arose, 
And  vanish'd  from  the  strings  ;  until  her  hand 
Seem'd  resting  only  on  the  instrument, 
Which  sounded  with  the  beatings  of  her  pulse, 
Unprompted  by  her  will ; — but,  suddenly, 
Her  mood  grew  firm,  and,  most  commandingly, 
A  bold  and  ranging  melody  she  framed, 
With  nicest  variations  ;  and,  awhile, 
The  strain  was  like  the  first  flight  of  a  bird, 
Waking,  at  morning,  with  rejoicing  wing, 
And  soaring,  soaring  upward,  even  to  heaven. 
Then,  as  the  high  tones  of  the  instrument, 
Grew  soften'd  as  by  distance,  with  her  voice 
She  coupled  sweetest  thoughts,  most  gently  framed 
By  suited  language.     Mournfully,  she  sang 
A  ditty  of  the  saddest  circumstance — 
Of  fortune  long  denied,  and  tenderest  love, 
That  should  have  been,  like  some  well-treasured  flower, 
Worn  in  the  genial  bosom,  left  to  pale 
Its  leaves  in  hopeless  blight ;  arid,  at  the  close, 
Fondly  and  gently,  thus  she  spoke  of  him  ! 

"  Yet,  will  I  not  reproach  thee,  though  thou  hast 
Dealt  most  unkindly,  Albert.     'Twas  a  fault, 
A  most  unmaidenly  fault — those  words  of  mine  : — • 
Yet  might  have  been  forgiven — should  have  been 
Chidden,  and  then  forgotten.     'Twas  a  child, 


ALBERT    AND     EOSALIE.  259 

That  spoke  with  little  thought : — thou  shouldst  have  known 
My  heart  was  with  thee. 

"  But,  'tis  over  now  ; — 
Thou  wilt  forgive  me  when  I  am  no  more, 
And,  as  thy  nature  is  all  gentleness, 
Even  when  thy  word  is  sternest,  well  I  know 
Thou  wilt  reproach  thyself,  that  thou  hast  been 
So  rigid  with  me." 

A  faint  cry  below, 

Broke  in  upon  her  speech — a  cry  of  woe — 
And,  in  another  moment,  through  the  leaves, 
Came  darting  a  strange  form — yet  not  so  strange, 
When  the  next  glance  survey'd  him.     It  was  he — 
'Twas  Albert — and  he  came  all  penitent, 
And  sorrowing  for  his  sternness.     In  his  arms, 
She  sank  most  fondly,  and  yet  speechlessly. 
"  Forgive  me,  dearest  Rosalie  !"  he  cried  : 
"  Too  long  forgetful  of  thy  worth  and  claims, 
I  come  to  thee  at  last ; — forgive  me  all — 
I  was  too  rash — too  cruel, — thou  hast  been 
The  sufferer  at  my  hands,  and  I  have  wrong'd  thee 
Beyond  atonement, — yet,  I  pray  thee  smile  : 
Look  up  and  say — look  up,  my  well  beloved, 
And  bless  me  with  thy  smile — and,  with  thy  words, 
Say,  thou  forgivest  me." 

The  dim  eyes  unclosed, 

The  bosom  heaved  in  sighs — a  bright  smile  spread, 
From  the  sweet  lips,  and  from  the  kindling  eye, 
Over  her  pallid  face,  and  then  it  pass'd, 
Even  like  some  soft  and  rosy  cloud  at  eve, 
Suddenly,  from  the  sight. 

"  I  am  forgiven  ! — 

That  eye  hath  said  it — from  those  lips  it  came, 
Even  though  they  spoke  not, — and  this  heaving  breast, 


260  ALBERT    AND     ROSALIE. 

Sent  me  its  pardon  in  that  gentle  sigh. 
Yet,  speak  to  me,  beloved, — speak  to  me  ! — 
What  means  this  silence  ? — speak  to  me — but  once  ! 
But  once  ! — Help,  there ! — some  water — quickly  bring, 
Or  she  will  die  in  my  arms  ! — God  ! — she  is  dead, 
And  I  have  slain  her  !" 

Truly,  had  he  said. 

The  parted  breath  that  would  have  spoke  in  mercy, 
Had  made  its  way  to  heaven.     He  was  alone — 
The  destiny  of  Albert  was  not  done — 
And  forth  he  fled — and  still  he  fled,  alone. 


A  STORY  OF  GOD'S  JUDGMENT, 

A   LEGEND    OF    GEOBGIA. 


A  GRANDAM,  by  the  cottage  door, 

At  evening,  when  the  sun 
Left  hues  among  the  forest  trees 

That  gilded  every  one, 
Thus,  in  the  grandchild's  listening  ear, 

Who  gather'd  at  her  knee, 
"  A  tale  of  God's  own  judgment,  child, 

Thy  mother  tells  to  thee. 

ii. 

"  A  tale  of  God's  own  judgment,  child, 

And  how  the  deed  was  known, 
And  how  they  took  the  murderer, 

And  punishment  was  done — 
Give  ear,  and  thou  shalt  hear,  my  child, 

And  heedful  be  thy  sense, 
For  know  that  crime,  or  soon  or  late, 

Will  have  intelligence. 

in. 

"  Will  have  intelligence,  my  child, 
And  find  a  tongue,  whose  sound, 

Like  church-bell  in  the  wilderness, 
Will  rouse  the  people  round. — 


262  A    STORY     OF    GOD'S    JUDGMENT. 

Wouldst  hear  tins  cruel  tale,  my  child  ?" 
The  young  boy,  at  her  knee, 

Upstarted,  and,  with  accent  wild, 
Cried,  "  Gran'am,  tell  it  me  !" 

IV. 

"  Once  on  a  time,"  in  good  old  phrase, 

The  dame  began  the  tale  ; — 
"  Just  where  the  town  of  Macon  stands 

There  ran  the  Indian  trail ; — 
'Twas  there  the  cruel  deed  was  done, 

There  was  no  Macon  then, 
And  but  a  single  house  was  there, 

Kept  by  two  aged  men. 

v. 

"  These  old  men  in  the  wilderness, 

They  kept  the  house  that  stood 
Upon  the  Indian  trail  that  ran, 

For  ages,  through  the  wood  ; 
And  there  the  traveller  stay'd  by  night. 

Who  journey 'd  out  in  quest 
Of  those  rich  prairie  lands  that  make 

So  famous  all  the  West. 

VI. 

"  Thus  bent  for  Al'bama,  my  child, 

A  seeking  lands  one  day, 
Three  strangers  to  the  old  men's  house, 

Came  riding  on  their  way ; 
Two  were  rough  men,  with  heavy  beards, 

And  very  coarse  of  speech, 
But  the  young  one  was  a  gentleman, 

And  far  above  their  reach. 


A    STORY    OF    GOD'S    JUDGMENT.  263 

VII. 

"  Ay,  far  above  their  reach  was  he, 

That  gentleman  so  fair, 
With  a  sweet  smile  and  countenance, 

And  long  and  sandy  hair, — 
He  talk'd  with  them,  and  freely  told 

The  business  that  he  had  ; — 
For,  you  see,  there  was  a  maiden  fair, 

"Whose  smiles  had  made  him  glad. 
I 

VIII. 

"  Her  smiles  had  made  him  glad,  my  child, 

And  he  was  bent  to  find 
A  pleasant  spot  and  fruitful  lands, 

To  satisfy  her  mind — 
And  they  were  to  be  wed  as  soon 

As,  finding  what  he  sought, 
He  should  convey  the  tidings  home, 

Of  lands  which  he  had  bought. 

IX. 

"  He  had  the  wealth  to  buy  the  lands, 

And  with  never  a  thought  or  care, 
In  evil  hour  he  show'd  the  bills, 

In  the  wallet  that  he  bare  ; 
Nor  mark'd  the  eyes,  so  dark  with  sin, 

They  fix'd  upon  the  book, 
Nor  how  they  suddenly  cast  them  down, 

Lest  he  should  see  the  look. 

x. 

"  He  did  not  see  the  look,  alas  ! 

Else  he  were  much  to  blame, 
To  go  a-travelling  on  with  them, 

When  the  next  morning  came. 


264  A    STORY     OF     GOD'S    JUDGMENT. 

And  on  they  started  by  the  dawn, — 

The  twain  were  first  abroad, — 
But  soon  the  youthful  gentleman 

Came  riding  down  the  road. 

XI. 

"  And  riding  down  the  road  so  wild, 

You  would  have  thought  the  three, 
So  frank  was  that  young  gentleman, 

Were  all  one  company. 
And  pleasantly  enough  they  went, 

Till  towards  noon  they  came 
To  an  old  Indian  settlement — 

Chilicte  was  its  name. 

XII. 

"  Chilicte  was  its  name,  my  child, 

But  all  deserted  then — 
'Twas  by  the  burial-place  alone, 

You  knew  the  homes  of  men  ; 
The  woods  grew  thick  about  the  spot, 

And  the  hills  rose  darkly  round, 
And  a  hush  in  the  air  fill'd  the  soul  with  fear, 

Of  the  stillness  so  profound. 

XIII. 

"  But  the  owl  he  made  his  dwelling  there, 

And  as  the  sun  went  down, 
He  hooted  aloud  to  the  silent  air, 

And  he  claim'd  it  for  his  own  : 
The  night-hawk  wheel'd,  and  the  bat  went  round 

In  his  dizzy  circles  fast, 
And  the  owl  drew  nigher,  with  every  hoot, 

To  the  road,  as  the  travellers  pass'd. 


A    STORY    OF    GOD7S    JUDGMENT.  265 

XIV. 

"  O'er  the  road  he  sat,  on  a  blighted  bough, 

And  down  he  stared  as  they  sped  beneath, 
And  his  great  eyes  gloom'd  'neath  his  horned  brow, 

With  a  fearful  look  of  death. 
With  a  stifled  breath  the  three  went  on, — 

The  path  grew  hard  to  find, 
And  while  the  youth  rode  on  with  one, 

The  other  dropp'd  behind. 

xv, 
*'  He  dropp'd  behind  with  cruel  thought, 

And  while  his  comrade  spoke, 
With  heavy  arm  and  loaded  whip, 

He  struck  a  sudden  stroke — 
And  down  the  light-hair5 d  stranger  fell, 

As  quickly  and  as  low 
As  heavy  ox,  that  swims  and  reels 

Beneath  the  butcher's  blow. 

XVI. 

"  It  was  a  butcher's  blow  he  gave, 

And  wild  the  stranger  cried, 
To  spare  his  life,  and  let  him  live 

For  his  young  and  promised  bride. 
But  they  had  not  a  thought  for  her, 

And  spoke  an  idle  jest — 
Then  knelt,  and  stuck  the  fatal  knife, 

Twice,  deep  into  his  breast. 

XVII. 

"  Twice,  deeply  did  they  stick  the  knife, 

And  no  more  prayer  had  he  : 
One  blow  had  been  enough  for  life — 

He  perish'd  instantly. 
VOL.  i.  12 


266  A    STORY     OF    GOD'S    JUDGMENT. 

And  from  his  breast  they  took  the  spoil, — 
The  money  which  had  bought 

Their  souls  for  that  old  serpent,  child, 
That  all  this  mischief  wrought. 

XVIII. 

"  The  mischief  all  was  wrought,  and  vain 

To  wish  it  now  undone  ; — 
They  took  the  body  up,  and  hid 

The  secret  from  the  sun. 
And  in  a  hollow  of  the  hills, 

In  that  old  Indian  town, 
They  stript  the  dead  youth  silently, 

And  dropp'd  the  body  down. 

XIX. 

"  They  dropp'd  him  down,  nor  buried  him, 

But  left  him  bleeding,  bare  ; 
Though  well  they  knew,  at  night,  the  wolf 

And  wild -cat  would  be  there. 
And  then,  with  fear  that  look'd  behind, 

They  rode  upon  their  way, 
And  thought  they  heard  upon  the  wind, 

A  voice  that  bade  them  stay. 

xx. 

"  A  voice  that  bade  them  stay,  they  heard, 

And  then  a  laugh  and  scream, 
And  such  they  heard  in  after  years, 

In  many  a  midnight  dream — 
But  on  they  rode,  nor  linger'd  then, 

And,  day  by  day,  they  went, 
Till,  like  the  wealth  of  drinking  men, 

The  money  soon  was  spent. 


A    STORY    OF     GOD'S    JUDGMENT.  267 

XXI. 

"  The  money  soon  was  spent,  and  so — 

(Now  years  had  past) — they  thought, 
To  part  awhile,  and  each  pursue 

The  scheme  his  fancy  taught ; 
And  one  went  down  to  New  Orleans, 

The  other,  hardier  yet, 
Took  the  same  road  on  which,  before, 

The  murder'd  youth  he  met. 

XXII. 

"  The  murder'd  youth,  on  that  same  road, 

He  met,  long  years  before, 
And,  with  a  sinner's  hardihood, 

The  spot  he  traveled  o'er — 
Till  as  the  evening  shadows  fell, 

In  glimpses,  through  the  trees, 
The  reedy-rimm'd  Ockmulge  stream, 

By  Macon  town,  he  sees. 

XXXIII. 

"  By  Macon  town — '  what  change  is  here  ! 

The  place  is  not  the  same.' 
He  looks, — a  city  rises  there, 

He  does  not  know  its  name. 
The  old  fort  is  in  ruins  too, 

He  marks  the  broken  guns, 
Some  tumbled  to  the  very  brink, 

Where  dark  Ockmulge  runs. 

XXIV. 

"  He  sees  the  dark  Ockmulge  run, 

And  now  he  draws  him  nigh, 
But  neither  boat  nor  boatman  comes, 

Although  he  shouts  full  high — 


268  A    STOKY    OF     GOD'S    JUDGMENT. 

Yet,  while  lie  looks,  a  silent  skiff 
Shoots  outward  from  the  banks, 

Where  osiers  and  the  matted  canes, 
Stand  up  in  solid  ranks. 

xxv. 
"  From  out  their  solid  ranks,  the  skiff 

Shoots  silent  o'er  the  stream, 
The  murderer  stares — he  shuts  his  eyes — 

He  feels  as  in  a  dream  : 
For  who  should  paddle  then  that  skiff 

Upon  the  swelling  flood, 
But  the  same  youth,  that,  years  before, 

He  murder'd  down  the  road. 

XXVI. 

"  The  youth  he  murder'd  down  the  road, 

The  knife  stuck  in  his  breast ! — 
Two  cruel  wounds,  and  each  a  death, 

Yet  there  he  would  not  rest. 
Wild  grew  the  murderer's  spirit  then, 

And  white  as  chalk  his  cheek — 
And  when  the  boatman's  bark  drew  nigh, 

He  had  no  word  to  speak. 

XXVII. 

"  He  had  no  word  to  speak  to  him — 

The  boatman  waved  his  hand  ; 
And  with  no  thought,  yet  full  of  fear, 

He  came  at  his  command — 
And  trembled  much,  though  much  he  strove 

His  shiv'ring  dread  to  hide  ; — 
And  held  the  bridle  of  his  steed, 

That  swam  the  skiff  beside. 


A    STORY     OF    GOD'S    JUDGMENT.  269 

XXVIII. 

"  The  good  steed  swam  beside  the  stiff, 

And  though  he  held  the  rein, 
It  were  a  speech  too  much  to  say 

He  thought  of  him  again. 
His  thought  was  of  that  boatman  there, 

And  of  the  wicked  time, 
When,  journeying  o'er  that  very  road, 

He  did  the  deed  of  crime. 

XXIX. 

"  The  deed  of  crime  was  in  his  thought, 

And  all  his  limbs  were  weak ; — 
He  strove  in  vain — his  tongue  was  parch'd, 

And  no  word  could  he  speak  : 
A  cold  wind  went  through  all  his  bones, — 

His  hair  stood  up  on  end, — 
To  slay  him  then,  had  surely  been 

The  kindness  of  a  friend. 


"  But  the  kindness  of  a  friend  is  not 

For  him  who  slays,  like  Cain, 
The  brother,  who,  confiding,  goes 

Beside  him  on  the  plain — 
And  so,  the  murderer  reach'd  the  shore, 

And  with  a  desperate  speed, 
He  dash'd  the  passage-money  down, 

And  leapt  upon  his  steed. 

XXXI. 

"  He  leapt  upon  his  steed  and  flew, 

Nor  look'd  upon  the  way ; 
Nor  heeded  that  remember'd  voice 

That  loudly  bade  him  stay : 


270  A    STORY    OF     GOD'S    JUDGMENT. 

'  How  came  ye  over  the  river,  friend  ?' 
Cried  one  who  mark'd  his  flight, — 

*  When  the  boat  was  swamp'd  in  the  heavy  fresh 
And  the  ferryman  drown'd,  last  night  ? 

XXXII. 

"  '  The  ferryman  drown'd  last  night,  friend, 

And  the  boat  lies  high  and  dry, — 
And  well  I  know  no  steed  can  ford, 

When  the  river  runs  so  high.' 
There  was  fearful  sense  in  every  word, 

And  the  murderer's  brain  grew  wild, 
For  still  he  heard,  for  evermore, 

The  cryings  of  a  child. 

XXXIII. 

"  The  cryings  of  a  child  he  heard, 

And  a  voice  of  innocence — 
Then  a  pleading  note,  and  a  prayer  of  doom, 

To  the  awful  providence. 
And,  ever  and  anon,  a  crash, 

Of  the  terrible  thunder,  came, — 
And  he  shut  his  eyes,  for  out  of  the  wood, 

There  leapt  a  flash  of  flame. 

xxxiv. 

"  There  leapt  a  flash  of  flame,  and  so, 

With  a  blindness  strange,  he  flew, 
And  the  goodly  steed  that  then  he  rode, 

Alone  the  pathway  knew, — 
And  the  blood  grew  cold  in  his  bosom,  when 

He  reach'd  the  town  he  sought, — 
And  down  he  sank  on  the  tavern  steps, 

And  he  had  no  farther  thought. 


A    STORY    OF    GOD'S    JUDGMENT.  271 

xxxv. 
"  He  had  no  thought,  but  in  a  swoon 

For  a  goodly  hour  he  lay ; 
And  the  gathering  crowd  came  nigh,  and  strove 

To  drive  his  sleep  away. 
And  while  they  wonder'd  much,  he  woke, 

His  eye  glared  strange  with  light — 
For  the  face  of  the  murder'd  man  did  seem 

Still  full  before  his  sight 

XXXVI. 

"  Still  full  the  eyes  of  the  murder'd  man 

Peer'd  ever  as  he  lay  ; 
And  with  fury  then,  the  murderer  rose, 

Like  one  in  a  sudden  fray — 
And  he  drew  from  his  bosom  a  deadly  knife. 

And,  with  no  let,  he  ran, 
And  plunged  it  deep  in  the  breast  of  him 

Who  look'd  like  the  murder'd  man. 

XXXVII. 

"  He  look'd  like  the  murder'd  man  no  more, 

For  as  with  the  stroke  he  fell, 
The7  madness  fled  from  the  murderer's  sense, 

And  he  knew  his  own  brother  well. — 
Twas  that  same  brother,  who  with  him  slew 

The  youth,  many  long  years  gone  ; 
And  the  fearful  doom  for  that  evil  deed 

Will  now  be  quickly  done. 

• 

XXXVIII. 

"  'Twill  soon  be  done,  for  the  judge  is  there, 

And  he  reads  the  doom  of  death, — 
And  the  murderer  told  of  his  evil  life, 

With  the  truth  of  a  dying  breath. 


272  A    STORY    OF    GOD'S    JUDGMENT. 

They  hung  him  high  where  the  cross  roads  meet, 

Close  down  by  the  gravel  ford  ; 
And  they  left  his  farther  doom,  my  child, 

To  the  ever  blessed  Lord," 


xxxix. 

Upstarted  then  the  listening  boy, — 

"  Now  tell  me,  oh,  tell  me,  dame, — 
And  what  of  the  sweet  young  lady, 

And  what  of  her  became  ? 
Who  told  her,  then,  of  the  gentle  youth, 

And  how,  in  that  savage  glen, 
The  knife  was  stuck  in  his  bosom, 

By  the  hands  of  those  cruel  men  ?" 

XL. 

"  Out,  out,  my  child, — was  it  right  to  tell 

Such  a  tale  to-  the  maiden  true  ? — 
They  had  no  name  for  the  inurder'd  man, 

And  the  story  she  never  knew. 
And  they  had  no  word  to  comfort  her, 

And  paler  her  cheek  grew,  day  by  day,- 
Till  the  cruel  grief,  ere  a  year  had  gone-, 

Had  eaten  her  heart  away.n 


THE  LAST  FIELDS  OF  THE  BILOXI; 

A    TRADITION    OF    LOUISIANA. 


THE  Bay  of  Pascagoula  is  a  lovely  and  retired  spot,  lying  at  nearly  equal  travelling  dis- 
tances between  the  cities  of  Mobile  and  New  Orleans.  It  has  long  been  famous  among  per- 
sons of  taste  in  those  cities  for  its  quiet  beauties ;  but  more  so  on  account  of  a  very  singular 
and  sweet  superstition  which  pertains  to  it.  A  remarkable,  and  most  spiritual  kind  of  music, 
is  heard  above  and  around  its  waters,  from  which  it  is  supposed  to  issue.  The  sound  is  fit- 
ful, occurring  by  day  and  night,  at  all  hours,  sometimes  with  more  or  less  strength  and  fnl- 
ness,  but  always  very  sweet  and  touching  in  its  strains.  Some  compare  it  to  the  wind-harp, 
which,  indeed,  it  sometimes  most  wonderfully  resembles.  Others  liken  it  to  the  humming 
of  an  insect  of  great  and  curious  powers.  The  Indian  tradition  explanatory  of  this  music, — 
which  no  philosophical  speculation  has  yet  ventured  to  disturb, — is  one  of  a  beauty  not  often 
surpassed.  The  story  goes  that  the  whole  Southwest  was  once  controlled,  and  in  the  pos- 
session of  a  people  called  the  Biloxi ;  that  these  people  had  attained  a  very  high,  if  not  a 
perfect  civilization — that  they  were  versed  in  various  arts,  profound  lovers  of  music,  and 
were  finally  enervated  by  the  arts  which  they  possessed.  They  were  overrun  and  conquered 
by  the  fiercer  tribes  coming  from  the  "West.  They  made  a  last  stand  on  the  borders  of  the 
sea,  by  Pascagoula,  when  driven  from  all  other  positions.  Here  they  erected  a  fortress,  the 
ruins  of  which  are  still  said  to  be  seen ;  though  the  work  so  described  as  theirs  was  probably 
erected  by  some  of  the  roving  bands  of  Spanish  and  French  who  first  brought  European 
civilization  into  the  country.  The  last  struggles  of  the  Biloxi  were  protracted,  as  became 
the  efforts  of  a  brave  nation  fighting  for  life  and  liberty.  But  they  fought  in  vain.  Famine 
came  in  to  the  assistance  of  their  enemies,  and  unconditional  submission  or  death  were  the 
only  alternatives.  They  chose  the  last ;  and  men,  women,  and  children  proceeded  to  the  sacri- 
fice— which  was  as  solemn,  and  perhaps  more  touching,  than  that  of  the  citizens  of  Numantia 
under  like  circumstances.  Throwing  open  the  gates  of  their  fortress,  at  a  moment  when  the 
assailants  were  withdrawn,  they  inarched  down  to  the  waters  of  the  bay,  singing  their  last 
song  of  death  and  defiance.  With  unshaken  resolution  they  pressed  forward  until  the  waters 
finally  engulfed  them  all.  None  survived.  The  strange  spiritual  music  of  the  Bay  of  Pas- 
cagoula is  said  to  be  the  haunting  echo  of  that  last  melancholy  strain.  *  *  Such  is  one  of 
the  traditions  respecting  this  mysterious  music;  and  the  one  which  we  most  prefer.  An- 
other legend  is  agreeably  reported  by  Mr.  Gayarre,  in  his  late  work  on  the  picturesque  and 
romantic  in  the  history  of  Louisiana.  It  is  due  to  the  reader  that  he  should  be  put  in  pos- 
session of  this  other  version  of  the  story.  Gayarre  describes  the  music  as  occurring  mostly 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Pascagoula  River,  and  as  seeming  to  float  upon  the  waters,  particularly 
in  a  calm  moonlight.  "  It  seems  to  issue  from  caverns  or  grottoes  in  the  bed  of  the  river, 
and  sometimes  oozes  up  through  the  water,  under  the  very  keel  of  the  boat  which  contains 
the  inquisitive  traveller,  whose  ear  it  strikes  as  the  distant  concert  of  a  thousand  seolian 
harps.  On  the  banks  of  the  river,  close  by  the  spot  where  the  music  is  heard,  tradition  says 
there  existed  a  tribe  different  in  color  and  in  other  peculiarities  from  the  rest  of  the  Indians. 
Their  ancestors  had  originally  emerged  from  the  sea,  where  they  were  born,  and  were  of  a 
light  complexion.  They  were  a  gentle,  gay,  inoffensive  race,  living  chiefly  on  oysters  and 

12* 


LAST    FIELDS    OF    THE    BILOXI. 

fish,  and  they  passed  their  time  in  festivals  and  rejoicings.  They  had  a  temple  in  which 
they  adored  a  mermaid.  Every  night  when  the  moon  was  visible,  they  gathered  round  the 
beautifully  carved  figure  of  the  mermaid,  and  with  instruments  of  strange  shape,  worshipped 
that  idol  with  such  soul-stirring  music  as  had  never  before  blessed  human  ears. 

"  One  day,  a  short  time  after  the  destruction  of  Mauvila,  or  Mobile,  in  1539,  by  Soto  and 
his  companions,  there  appeared  among  them  a  white  man,  with  a  long  gray  beard,  flowing 
garments,  and  a  large  cross  in  his  right  hand.  lie  drew  from  his  bosom  a  book,  which  he 
kissed  reverentially,  and  he  began  to  explain  to  them  what  was  contained  in  that  sacred 
little  casket.  Tradition  does  not  say  how  he  came  suddenly  to  acquire  the  language  of 
those  people  when  he  attempted  to  communicate  to  them  the  solemn  truths  of  the  Gospel. 
It  must  have  been  by  the  operation  of  that  faith  which,  we  are  authoritatively  told,  will  re- 
move mountains.  Be  it  as  it  may,  the  holy  man,  in  the  course  of  a  few  months,  was  pro- 
ceeding with  much  success  in  his  pious  undertaking,  and  the  work  of  conversion  was  going 
on  bravely,  when  his  purposes  were  defeated  by  an  awful  prodigy. 

"One  night,  when  the  moon  at  her  zenith  poured  on  heaven  and  earth,  with  more  pro- 
fusion than  usual,  a  flood  of  light  angelic,  at  the  solemn  hour  of  twelve,  when  all  in  nature 
was  repose  and  silence,  there  came,  on  a  sudden,  a  rushing  on  the  surface  of  the  river,  as  if 
the  still  air  had  been  flapped  into  a  whirlwind  by  myriads  of  invisible  wings  sweeping  on- 
ward. The  water  seemed  to  be  seized  with  convulsive  fury ;  uttering  a  deep  groan,  it  rolled 
several  times  from  one  bank  to  the  other  with  rapid  oscillations,  and  then  gathered  itself  up 
into  a  towering  column  of  foaming  waves,  on  the  top  of  which  stood  a  mermaid,  looking 
with  magnetic  eyes  that  could  draw  almost  every  thing  to  her,  and  singing  with  a  voice 
which  fascinated  into  madness.  The  Indians  and  the  priest,  their  new  guest,  rushed  to  the 
bank  of  the  river  to  contemplate  this  supernatural  spectacle.  When  she  saw  them,  the  mer- 
maid tuned  her  tones  into  still  more  bewitching  melody,  and  kept  chanting  a  sort  of  mystic 
song,  with  this  often-repeated  ditty : — 

'  CoTne  to  me,  come  to  me,  children  of  the  sea, 
Neither  bell,  book,  nor  cross,  shall  win  ye  from  your  queen.' 

"The  Indians  listened  with  growing  ecstasy,  and  one  of  them  plunged  into  the  river,  to 
rise  no  more.  The  rest,  men,  women,  and  children,  followed  in  quick  succession,  moved,  as 
it  were,  with  the  same  irresistible  impulse.  When  the  last  of  the  race  disappeared,  a  wild 
laugh  of  exultation  was  heard ;  down  returned  the  river  to  its  bed  with  the  roar  of  a  cata- 
ract, and  the  whole  scene  seemed  to  have  been  but  a  dream.  Ever  since  that  time  is  heard 
occasionally  the  distant  music  which  has  excited  so  much  attention  and  investigation.  The 
other  Indian  tribes  of  the  neighborhood  have  always  thought  that  it  was  their  musical 
brethren,  who  still  keep  up  their  revels  at  the  bottom  of  the  river,  in  the  palace  of  the  mer- 
maid. Tradition  further  relates  that  the  poor  priest  died  in  an  agony  of  grief,  and  that  he 
attributed  this  awful  event,  and  victory  of  the  powers  of  darkness,  to  his  not  having  been  in 
a  perfect  state  of  grace  when  he  attempted  the  conversion  of  those  infidels.  It  is  believed, 
also,  that  he  said  on  his  death-bed,  that  those  deluded  pagan  souls  would  be  redeemed  from 
their  bondage  and  sent  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  if,  on  a  Christmas  night,  at  twelve  of  the 
clock,  when  the  moon  shall  happen  to  be  at  her  meridian,  a  priest  should  dare  to  come  alone 
to  that  musical  spot,  in  a  boat  propelled  by  himself,  and  should  drop  a  crucifix  into  the 
water.  But,  alas !  if  this  be  ever  done,  neither  the  holy  man  nor  the  boat  are  to  be  seen 
again  by  mortal  eyes.  So  far,  the  attempt  has  not  been  made;  skeptic  minds  have  sneered, 
but  no  one  has  been  found  bold  enough  to  try  the  experiment." 

The  reader  has  now  both  the  leading  traditions  before  him,  and  can  choose  between  them. 
It  will  be  seen,  that,  in  the  narrative  which  follows,  I  prefer  the  former  version  of  the 
legend.  The  Poet  is  supposed  to  be  a  spectator  of  the  scene, — one  greatly  ravished  with 
the  quiet  and  sweet  beauty  of  the  landscape,  and  beguiled  by  it  into  a  long  train  of  dreamy 
speculations,  which  insensibly  conduct  him  to  the  state  of  mind  when  he  shall  be  most  sus- 
ceptible to  spiritual  influences.  It  is  then  that  he  is  suddenly  made  aware  of  the  awaken- 
ing murmurs  of  the  mysterious  music.  The  reflections  which  precede  the  revelation  are 
designed  as  a  natural  prelude  to  the  strain. 


THE  LAST  FIELDS  OF  THE  BILOXI. 


i. 

BEAUTIFUL  spread  these  waters  'neath  mine  eye, 

Glassy  and  bright,  with  myrtles  overhung ; 

Blue  stretch  the  heavens  above  them — in  their  depths, 

Far  down  reflected — arch  more  beautiful, 

Seen  through  the  mellowing  medium  of  the  wave, 

Than  in  its  native  empire, — spann'd  above, 

Blazing,  all  cloudless,  with  the  noonday  star. 

I  wander  by  the  islets  near  the  sea, 

That,  from  the  Mexique  bay,  a  tribute  deep, 

Rolls  in  on  Pascagoula.     There  it  sinks, 

And  sleeps  with  faintest  murmurs ;  or,  with  strife 

Brought  from  more  turbulent  regions,  still  bears  on, 

With  threatening  crest,  and  lips  of  whitening  foam, 

To  battle  with  Biloxi.     Short  the  strife ! 

Feebler  at  each  recoil,  its  languid  waves 

Fling  themselves,  listless,  on  the  yellow  sands, 

With  a  sweet  chiding,  as  of  grief  that  moans, 

Oblivious  not  in  slumber,  of  the  strife, 

That  slumber  still  subdues.     A  dream  of  peace 

Succeeds,  and  all  her  images  arise, 

To  hallow  the  fair  picture.     Ocean  sleeps 

Lock'd  in  by  earth's  embrace.     Her  islets  stand 

Gray  sentinels,  that  guard  her  waste  domain, 

And,  from  their  watch-towers  station'd  by  the  deep, 


276  LAST    FIELDS    OF    THE    BILOXI. 

Survey  the  midnight  legions  of  the  Gulf, 

Numberless,  wild,  in  their  blue  armor  clad, 

Forever  bent  on  spoil.     A  sweet  repose 

Hangs  o'er  the  groves,  and  on  the  sloping  shore 

And  the  far  ocean.     Not  a  murmur  chides 

The  sacred  silence.     From  the  lone  lagoon, 

The  patriarch  of  the  ancient  pelican, 

Leads  forth  his  train ;  though  not  with  pi  ashy  wing 

Break  they  the  glassy  stream,  whose  buoyant  wave 

Maintains  each  breast,  and  still  reflects  each  form, 

Without  a  riple  on  its  face  to  mar 

The  perfect  image.     Gliding  thus,  they  steer 

To  islands  of  green  rushes,  where  they  hide 

In  sports  most  human ; — in  white  glimpses  seen, — 

Or  by  the  light  tops  of  the  reeds  that  stoop, 

Divided  in  the  press  of  struggling  forms. 

But  rapture  hath  a  reign  as  short  as  peace — 

The  wild  fowls'  sports  are  ended.     They  repose 

By  the  still  marge  of  lakes,  that,  in  the  embrace 

Of  groves  of  cane  and  myrtle,  steal  away, 

And  crouch  in  sleep  secure ;  while  through  the  Gulf 

Rolls  the  black  hurricane.     The  summer  noon 

Prevails.     A  universal  hush 

Absorbs  the  drowsy  hours,  and  Nature  droops 

With  sweetness ;  as  upon  the  listless  eyes 

Of  beauty,  steal  the  images  of  dreams, 

Made  up  of  star-crown'd  hopes  and  truest  loves, 

And  joy's  own  purple  prospects.     The  still  air 

Falters  with  perfume  of  delicious  fruits ; — 

The  orange  flings  its  fragrance  to  the  seas, 

Wooing  the  zephyr  thence ;  and  lo  !  he  comes 

Fresh  from  the  toiling  conflict  with  the  deep, 

Upon  whose  breast,  subduing  and  subdued, 

He  snatches  fitful  rest.     The  glassy  wave, 


LAST    FIELDS    OF    THE    BILOXI.  277 

Smooth  and  serene  as  heaven,  is  broken  now 
Into  complaining  ripples.     Now,  his  breath 
Sweeps  the  rush  islands,  while  the  tall  reed  stoops 
Its  feathery  crest  to  ocean.     The  gray  sands, 
Whiii'd  suddenly  beneath  his  arrowy  tread, 
Pursue  his  flight  in  vain ; — and  now  he  glides 
Over  the  sacred  bay,  whose  clear  serene 
Is  whimpled  by  his  wing.     Anon,  he  stirs 
The  orange  blossoms, — drinks  full  surfeit  thence, 
And  sleeps  among  their  leaves. 

n. 

I  lay  me  down 

In  the  sweet  keeping  of  the  wilderness, 
Listless  and  blest  as  he !     No  wild  to  me, 
Though  lonely,  all  the  silent  groves  and  streams, 
That  slumber  in  my  glance.     For  I  have  been 
A  wanderer,  and  denied  all  human  ties  : — 
I  made  my  friends  among  the  hills  and  streams 
Least  loved  or  sought  by  man.     To  me,  they  wear 
Aspects  of  love  and  kindness.     Voices  call, 
And  fair  hands  beckon  me  from  alleys  green, 
Amidst  a  world  of  shadow  ; — solitudes 
That  woo  the  thoughtful  footstep,  and  persuade 
To  realms  of  pensive  silence, — beautiful  groves, 
Sad  only,  as  their  beauty  blooms  unsought. 

in. 

These  win  me  from  my  path.     I  turn  aside ; 
My  heart  drinks  in  the  sweetness  of  the  scene 
I  gaze  on ; — and  how  lovelier  grows  the  spot, 
To  him  who  comes  in  love  !     I  bow  my  head — 
Where  still  she  holds  her  matchless  sov'reignty — 
To  all  endowing  Nature.     Here  she  sits 


LAST  FIELDS  OF  THE  BILOXI. 

Supreme,  in  tangled  bower,  and  sunny  mead, 
And  high  umbrageous  forest.     At  her  feet, 
Broad  lakes  spread  forth  their  bosoms  to  the  skies, 
Whose  beauties  still  they  bear.     Sweet  fountains  swell 
From  loneliest  depths,  among  the  hidden  dells, 
That,  crouching  'neath  the  sway  of  sullen  hills, 
Yet  send  their  crystal  sorrows  down  the  stream, 
In  secret  channels  ;  that  the  world  may  seek, 
And  free  them  from  their  darksome  prison-place. 
Tree,  flower,  and  leaf,  consorting  with  her  mood, 
Impress  their  calm  on  mine.     I  lay  me  down, 
Within  her  solemn  temple.     Altars  rise 
About  me,  of  green  turf ;  and  tufted  beds, 
Of  grassy  and  blue  flowers,  beneath  my  head, 
Pillow  it  gently.     Mightiest  subjects  stand 
Around  me,  grouped,  and  bending  still,  to  serve — 
Thick-bearded  giants,  that  spread  wide  their  arms, 
And  shield  me  from  the  burning  shafts  of  noon. 

IV. 

Now,  sweeter  than  the  soft  recorder's  voice, 
Or  lute  of  ravishing  syren,  in  mine  ear, 
This  gentle  diapason  of  the  Avoods — 
This  sacred  concert, — airs  with  bending  pines, 
WTiose  murmurs  melt  to  one,  and  part  again 
With  new  accords, — with  now  a  catch  of  song, 
From  bird  that  starts  and  sleeps.     The  fancy  glows 
In  spiritual  converse,  as  I  dream 
Of  the  old  fated  men  of  these  sweet  plains, — 
Departed — all  their  dwelling-places  waste, 
And  their  wild  gods  grown  powerless ! 

Powerless  ? — No ! 

They  have  a  spell  for  fancy,  and  a  charm 
To  wa.ken  echoes  in  the  dreaming  heart ; 


LAST    FIELDS    OF    THE    BILOXI.  279 

And  from  the  prompt  and  sleepless  sympathies, 

Extort  unfailing  homage.     For  the  Past, 

They  live,  and  live  forever  !     That  which  speaks 

For  the  sole  moral  of  the  faded  race, 

Dies  not  when  it  hath  perished.     Song  will  speak, — 

Tradition,  and  the  venerable  groves, 

With  mounds,  and  fragments  of  old  implements, 

Even  for  the  heathen ; — as  in  temples,  books, 

Old  columns,  and  the  echoes  of  deep  strains 

From  Phoebus-smitten  minstrels,  still  survive 

The  proofs  of  mightier  nations — godlike  proofs, 

That  challenge  human  toil,  the  tooth  of  time, 

And  speak  when  he  is  voiceless.     These  connect 

Races  which  mingle  not ;  whose  separate  eyes — 

By  years  and  ocean  separate — never  saw 

Their  mutual  aspects  ;  yet,  by  sympathies, 

Born  of  like  trials,  strifes,  and  mightiest  deeds, 

Yearn  for  communion, — yearn  to  see  and  love ; 

And  when  the  earthquake  threatens,  bear,  in  flight, 

Each  glorious  token  of  the  transmitted  race. 

v. 

Thus  lives  the  savage  god.     Here,  still,  he  roves 
Among  his  hills  made  consecrate.     Here,  still, — 
By  this  broad  glassy  lake,  among  these  groves 
Of  yellow  fruits  and  fragrance, — o'er  yon  isles, 
The  limit  of  his  reign, — his  old  gray  eye 
Still  ranges,  as  if  watchful  of  the  trust 
His  sway  no  more  may  compass. 

Yet,  no  more 

Gather  the  simple  tribes  that  bow'd  the  knee, 
In  love,  or  deprecation  of  his  wrath  ; — 
No  more  from  plain  to  hill-top  glows  the  pile 
Fired  in  his  sacrifice ; — and,  to  glad  his  ear, 


280  LAST    FIELDS    OF    THE    BILOXI. 

Rolls  the  deep  strain  of  forest  worshippers, 
A  wild  and  antique  song  of  faith  and  fear, 
No  more  !  no  more  ! 

VI. 

'Tis  sure  a  dream  that  stirs 

These  sounds  within  my  soul ;  or,  do  I  hear 
A  swell  of  song, — sweet,  sad,  upon  mine  ear, 
That,  like  a  wayward  chant  from  out  the  sea, 
Rises  and  floats  along  the  yellow  sands ! 
A  note  most  like  the  wind-harp,  hung  in  trees 
Where  the  coy  zephyr  harbors.     Still  it  comes, 
In  more  elaborate  windings  ;  with  a  tone 
Most  human,  and  a  fitfulness  of  sound 
That  speaks  for  various  woes,  as  if  it  link'd 
The  deep,  despairing,  still  defying  cry, 
From  man  in  his  last  struggle, — with  the  shriek 
Of  passionate  woman,  not  afraid  to  die, 
Though  pleading  still  for  pity, — and  the  scream 
Of  childhood,  conscious  only  of  the  woes 
It  feels  not,  but  beholds  in  those  who  feel, 
Unutterable  still !     A  long-drawn  plaint, 
It  swells  and  soars,  until  the  difficult  breath 
Fails  me  ; — I  gasp  ; — I  may  not  follow  it 
With  auditory  sense  !     It  glows — it  spreads — 
'Till  the  whole  living  atmosphere  is  flush 
With  the  strange  harmony ;  and  now  it  sinks, 
Sudden,  but  not  extinguished  !     A  faint  tone 
Survives,  in  quivering  murmurs,  that  awhile 
Tremble  like  life  within  the  flickering  pulse 
Of  the  consumptive.     Losing  it,  we  hush 
Our  breathing  ;  and  suspend  the  struggling  sense, 
Whose  utterance  mars  its  own ;  and  still  we  hear 
Its  mellow  and  lone  cadences,  that  float, 


LAST  FIELDS  OF  THE  BILOXI.      28l 

Prolong'd,  and  finally  lost,  as  the  deep  sounds 
Superior  rise,  of  winds  and  waving  trees ! 

VII. 

It  is  a  sweet  tradition  of  these  shores, 
Told  by  the  Choctaw,  that,  when  ages  gone, 
His  savage  sire  descended  from  the  west, 
A  dark  and  desperate  hunter, — all  these  woods, 
From  the  rich  valleys  where  the  Missouri  bounds, 
To  mix  his  turbid  waters  with  the  streams 
Of  him,  the  Sire  of  Waters,*— to  the  blue  hills 
Of  Apalachia, — dwelt  a  numerous  race, 
Named  "  The  Biloxi."     Towns  and  villages, 
Cities  and  colleges,  and  various  arts, 
Declared  their  vast  antiquity.     They  were  proud — 
More  proud  than  all  the  living  tribes  of  men  ; 
Wiser,  and  versed  in  many  sciences ; 
And,  from  their  towers  of  earth,  that  sought  the  skies, 
In  emulous  mountain-stretches,  watch'd  the  stars, 
In  nightly  contemplation.     With  a  skill 
Wondrous,  by  other  tribes  unmatchable, 
They  rear'd  high  temples,  which  they  fill'd  with  forms 
Of  love  and  beauty.     In  their  thousand  homes, 
Joy  was  a  living  presence.     There  they  danced 
At  evening  ;  while  the  mellow  song  went  forth, 
Married  to  fitting  strains,  from  instruments 
Of  curious  form,  but  fill'd  with  strangest  power, 
That,  when  the  savage  hearken'd,  half  subdued 
His  bloody  thirst,  and  made  the  reptile's  fang 
Forget  his  venomous  office.     By  these  arts 
Were  they  at  last  betray'd.     They  soon  forgot 
The  vigorous  toils  of  manhood,  and  grew  weak, 
Incapable  of  arms.     Voluptuous  joys, 

*  The  Mississippi 


282  LAST    FIELDS    OF    THE    BILOXI. 

Morning  and  evening  in  their  courts,  surprised 
The  strength  of  their  young  people,  till  they  grew, 
Like  the  rank  grass  upon  the  bearded  plain, 
Fit  for  the  fire  and  scythe. 

VIII. 

The  Choctaw  Chief 

Look'd,  from  his  dusky  hills,  upon  their  vales, 
Exulting.     When  he  heard  their  songs  of  love, 
That  floated  upward  on  the  perfumed  air, 
And  saw,  below,  their  loose,  effeminate  forms 
Link'd  in  voluptuous  dance, — he  shouted  loud 
His  scornful  satisfaction  ;  while  he  bade 
His  warriors  nigh,  to  look  upon  their  homes, 
And  mark  their  easy- victims.  •  They,  below, 
By  happiness  made  deaf  and  arrogant, 
Heard  not  the  mighty  discord,  which,  above, 
Mock'd  their  soft  harmonies.     Their  dream  went  on ; 
The  midnight  dance  and  revel ;  the  sweet  song 
Of  love  and  gold-eyed  fancy ;  and  the  prayer, 
Unbroken,  of  true  genius,  in  his  cell, 
Toiling,  with  pen  or  pencil,  to  prepare 
His  triumph  for  the  adoring  eyes  of  day ! 

IX. 

But  with  day  came  the  conflict.     The  fierce  tribes, 
With  hellish  shout,  that  shook  the  affrighted  walls 
Till  the  high  temples  quaked,  rush'd  down  the  vale, 
Smiting  with  heavy  mace ;  or,  from  above, 
Shooting  their  poison'd  arrows  at  each  mark, 
Unerring.     Though  surprised,  the  Biloxi  fought 
Fiercely,  and  with  an  ardency  of  soul 
Superior  to  their  strength.     The  savage  press'd 
More  resolute  when  baffled.     Day  by  day, 


LAST    FIELDS    OF    THE    BILOXI.  283 

Some  citadel  was  won — some  lovelier  town 

Despoil'd  by  the  barbarian.     Thousands  fell 

In  conflict ;  yet  the  thousands  that  remain'd 

Breathed  nothing  but  defiance.     With  each  loss, 

Rose  a  new  spirit  in  their  hopeless  breasts, 

That  warm'd  them  with  fresh  courage ;  and  they  swore 

A  terrible  oath,  with  link'd  hands,  each  in  each, 

And  all,  to  their  old  deities,  to  yield 

Life  first,  and  freedom  never !     Well  they  kept 

Their  sacramental  pledges.     They  could  die, 

But  could  not  conquer.     Yielding  sullenly 

Each  foothold,  they  departed  from  the  towns 

They  could  no  more  maintain ;  and,  fighting,  fled ; 

Till  from  the  hills  of  Memphis — from  the  springs 

Of  Loosahatchie — from  the  golden  ridge, 

Where  the  gay  streams  of  Noxabee  arise, — 

Contented  captives  that  complain  not  oft 

Against  the  rocks,  that,  from  the  western  streams, 

Bar  their  free  passage — gradual  still  they  fled — 

Still  turning,  still  at  bay,  and  battling  oft 

The  dread  pursuer. 

x. 

To  this  spot  they  came — 

They  pitchM  their  tents  where  Pascagoula  flows, 

Through  shallows  of  gray  shells,  and  finds  its  way 

To  the  embraces  of  the  purple  Gulf. 

"  Here  !"  said  the  Prince — his  subjects  gather'd  round — 

"  Make  the  last  stand  !     The  land  beneath  our  feet 

Slips  rapidly,  and  farther  flight  is  none, 

Save  to  the  ocean.     We  must  stand  and  die  !" 

XI. 

Sad  were  their  hearts,  but  fearless.     Not  a  lip 
Spoke  for  submission.     Soul  and  arm  were  firm  ; 


284  LAST    FIELDS    OF    THE    BIT,  OX  I. 

And  here,  in  resolute  silence,  they  threw  up 

Their  earthen  ramparts.     On  the  narrow  walls 

Of  their  rude  fortress,  in  that  perilous  hour, 

Ranged  their  few  champions.     To  the  hills,  their  eyes 

Turn'd  ever,  till  the  savage  rose  in  sight. 

Then  took  they  up  their  weapons.     Flight  no  more 

Was  in  their  choice ;  but,  in  its  place,  there  came, 

From  hopelessness,  resolve — and  such  resolve, 

As  makes  man  terrible  as  fate.     They  stood, 

Silent,  with  lips  compress'd.     No  answering  shout 

Admonish'd  the  invader  of  the  strength 

Thus  newly  found ;  and  down  his  warriors  rush'd, 

As  to  an  easy  conquest.     But  they  shrunk, — 

And  wonder'd  whence  should  come  the  singular  might, 

So  sudden,  of  a  race  so  feeble  late  ! 

Days,  weeks,  and  months,  and  the  Biloxi  fought, 

Invincible.     Their  narrow  boundary  grew 

More  strong  and  powerful,  in  the  invader's  eyes, 

Than  had  been  their  sole  empire.     Spring,  at  length, 

Put  on  her  flowers.     Green  leaves  and  blossoming  fruits 

Declared  for  mercy ;  but  the  barbarian  tribes,  • 

Strengthen'd  by  fiercer  thousands  from  the  west, 

Maintain'd  the  leaguer.     Rescue  there  was  none  ; 

Despair  had  no  more  strength,  for  famine  sapp'd 

The  hearts  of  the  Biloxi. 

XII. 

One  bright  noon 

Beheld  them  met  in  council — women  and  men  ; 
The  mother  newly  made,  with  the  young  babe, 
Unconscious,  striving  at  her  bloodless  breasts  ; — 
For  all  are  equal  in  the  hour  of  woe, 
And  all  are  heard,  or  none  ! — 

It  needed  not 


LAST     FIELDS    OF    THE     BILOXI.  285 

That  they  should  ask  what  doom  awaited  them  ! 
They  saw  it  in  the  tottering  march — the  face, 
Pinch'd  by  lean  famine  ; — the  imperfect  speech, 
That  falter'd  with  the  syllable  prolong'd  ; — 
The  hollow  eyes  from  which  a  spiritual  glare 
Shot  out  like  death.     They  saw  it  in  all  sights, 
And  sounds,  that  fate,  in  that  protracted  term 
Of  struggle  and  endurance,  still  vouchsafed  ; — 
And  there  was  silence — a  long,  dreary  pause 
Broken  by  feminine  sobs.     Then  spoke  the  Prince, 
Last  of  a  line  of  kings  ! — 

"  Shall  we  submit 

To  bonds  and  probable  torture,  or  go  forth, 
Made  free  by  death  ?" 

Brief  silence  follow'd  then  : — 
In  that  brief  silence,  memories  of  years, 
And  ages,  crowded  thick.     Years  of  delight — 
Ages  of  national  fame  !     They  thought  of  all 
The  grace  of  their  old  homes, — the  charm,  the  song, 
Pure  rights  and  soothing  offices, — and  pride, 
Made  household,  by  the  trophies,  richly  strown, 
Through  court  and  chamber,  of  creative  art ; — 
All  lost ! — and  then  the  probable  doom  of  bonds, — 
The  only  slavery, — the  superior  race 
Bow'd  to  the  base  and  barbarous  ! — and  one  voice 
Proclaim'd  the  unanimous  will  of  all — to  die  ! 

XIII. 

That  eve,  while  yet  within  the  western  heavens, 
Linger'd  the  rosy  sunset — while  the  waves 
Lay  calm  before  them  in  the  crystal  bay, 
And  the  soft  winds  were  sleeping — and  a  smile, 
As  of  unbroken  peace  and  happiness, 
Mantled  the  glittering  forest  green,  and  far, 


286  LAST    FIELDS    OF    THE    BILOXI. 

Sprinkled  the  yellow  beach  with  glinting  fires, 

That  shone  like  precious  gems  ;— the  destined  race 

Threw  wide  their  fortress  gate.     Thence  went  they  forth 

In  sad  procession.     At  their  head,  the  Prince, 

Who  still  had  led  their  fortunes ; — then,  the  chiefs, 

And  soldiers — few,  but  fearless  ; — the  old  men — 

Patriarchs,  who  still  remain'd, — memorials 

Of  the  more  fortunate  past — and,  last  of  all, 

The  women  and  the  children.     'Twas  an  hour, 

"When  Nature  craved  a  respite  from  her  toils  ; 

And,  from  the  strife  withdrawn,  the  savage  foe 

Were  distant,  in  their  woodland  tents  retired. 

These  started  with  strange  wonder  to  behold 

The  solemn  march,  unwitting  of  its  end 

And  glorious  aim  ;  nor  strove  they  to  disturb 

The  rights  which  they  divined  not.     On  they  went, 

That  ancient  nation.     Weapons  bore  they  none  ; 

But  with  hands  cross'd  upon  their  fearless  hearts, 

The  warriors  led  the  way.     The  matron  clung 

To  her  son's  arm,  that  yielded  no  support. 

The  infant,  hush'd  upon  its  mother's  breast, 

Was  sleeping  ;  but  the  mother's  sobs  were  still 

Audible  with  her  song ; — and,  with  her  song, 

Rose  that  of  thousands,  mingling  in  one  strain  ! 

The  art  which  in  their  happier  days  had  been 

Most  loved  among  them,  in  spontaneous  voice, 

Unsummon'd,  pour'd  itself  upon  the  air, 

As,  slowly,  but  with  steps  unfaltering  still, 

March'd  the  pale  band,  self-destined  to  the  deep  ! 

Never  had  Ocean  in  his  balmiest  hours, 

Look'd  less  like  death — less  terrible,  less  wild  ! 

An  infant's  slumber  had  not  been  more  free 

From  all  commotion.     Beautiful  and  bright, 

In  the  declining  sunset,  lay  the  scene 


LAST    FIELDS    OF    THE    BILOXI.  287 

That  witness'd  the  sad  sacrifice  ;  and  sweet, 

Like  the  fair  prospect,  was  the  united  song, — 

That  epicediurn  o'er  a  nation's  fate, 

Self-chanted,  which  went  with  them  to  the  waves, 

And  still  survives  them — breathing,  from  their  graves, 

The  story  of  their  empire, — of  its  fame, — 

Its  fall,  and  their  devoted  faith  that  knew 

No  life  unbless'd  with  freedom.     Sweetest  strain  ! — 

Once  more  it  rises  into  sounds,  that  grow 

Human  in  strength ;  and  now,  it  floats  away, 

Subdued  and  sinking,  as  in  that  sad  hour 

When  its  last  breathings  from  the  warrior's  throat 

Stopp'd  suddenly ;  and  through  the  desolate  air 

Went  a  more  desolate  hush  that  told  the  rest ! 


THE  HUNTER  OF  CALAWASSEE; 

A  LEGEND  OF  SOUTH  CAEOLINA. 


WHEN  bites,  in  bleak  November,  the  blast  that  rives  the  tree, 
And  scatters  wide  the  yellow  leaves,  so  sweetly  sad  to  see, 
Its  voice's  moaning  murmur,  borne  through  the  trembling  wood, 
Awakes  the  heedful  hunter  up,  and  stirs  his  drowsy  blood ; — 
In  ancient  times  a  summons  meet,*  for  all  who  struck  the  deer, 
He  will  not  be  the  last  to  heed,  who's  still  the  first  to  hear ; 
He  plucks  the  rifle  from  its  rest,  he  winds  the  yellow  horn, 
And  sweet  the  music  of  the  sound  through  all  the  forest  borne. 

ii. 

'Way  down  where  ghostly  cypress  and  dodder'd  oaks  spread  free, 
By  the  winding  fen  of  Calawass,  and  on  to  Ocketee, 
The  mellow  notes  go  searching  far,  the  bloodhound's  bay  is  full, — 
Shame  light  upon  that  hunter  now  whose  bosom's  beat  is  dull ! 
There's  life  within  that  bugle  note,  steeds  snort  and  riders  shout, 
And  life,  in  every  bound  they  take,  is  gushing  gladly  out ; 
A  spirit  rends  the  thicket, — upstarts  the  couchant  deer, 
Shakes  from  his  sluggish  flanks  the  dew,  and  bounds  away  in  fear. 

in. 

"  Now  sound  your  horns,"  cried  Kedar,  "  and  let  the  hunt  be  up, 
And  bring  me,  ere  we  start,  my  boy,  a  strong  and  stirring  cup ; 

*  The  fall  of  the  leaf  was  always  the  signal  for  ancient  hunting. 


THE    HUNTER    OF    CALAWASSEE. 

The  air  is  keen  and  searching,  and  sadly,  in  my  breast, 

The  blood,  that  should  be  bounding  still,  lies  lazily  at  rest ; 

Not  long  to  rest,  for,  by  my  soul,  and  all  the  saints !  I  swear, 

This  day  I  perish,  or  I  kill  the  buck  that  harbors  here, — 

That  one-horn'd  buck;" — "Nay,  swear  not  so,  dear  master,"  thus  he 

cried, 
The  aged  slave,  who  then  drew  nigh  and  stood  by  Kedar's  side. 

IV. 

"  Now,  out  upon  thy  coward  soul !"  cried  Kedar  to  the  slave ; 
"  Thou  wast  a  man  upon  a  time, — my  father  thought  thee  brave ; 
But  age  has  dull'd  thy  spirit — thy  limbs  have  need  of  rest, 
This  air's  too  keen  for  such  as  thou — go,  harbor  in  thy  nest ; 
Fool-fears  have  quell'd  thy  manhood,  and,  in  this  buck  I  seek, 
Thou  find'st  a  foe  whose  very  name  'twould  white  thy  lips  to  speak ; 
But  though  he  be  the  fiend  himself,  and  stand  before  my  eyes, 
This  day  I  hunt  him  down,  I  say,  and  deer  or  hunter  dies !" 

v. 

Then  sadly  spoke  that  aged  slave — "  Oh,  master,  swear  not  so — 
Leave  hunting  of  this  one-horn'd  buck,  that's  like  no  beast  we  know ; 
He  makes  no  slot,*  no  entry*  leaves,  though  through  the  closest 

brakes 

Of  bush,  or  cane,  or  thicket  swamp,  his  headlong  course  he  takes : 
Still  bears  the  same  erected  port,  and  never  frays  a  head ; — * 
Two  seasons  have  you  hunted  him,  and  still  with  evil  sped ; 

*  Old  Lauto  is  somewhat  more  learned  in  his  terms  than  most  of  the  dri- 
vers of  the  southern  country  ;  and,  for  the  sake  of  his  brethren,  some  little  ex- 
planation may  be  given  here.  These  are  all  terms  of  the  chase  in  ancient 
English  hunting ;  and  are  furnished  to  me,  at  second  hand,  from  Gascoigne's 
"  Commendation  of  the  noble  Arte  of  Venerie."  The  slot  is  the  print  of  a 
stag's  foot  upon  the  ground ;  entries  are  places  through  which  deer  have  lately 
passed,  by  which  their  size  is  conjectured ;  frayings  are  the  pillings  of  their 
horns  ;  and  a  deer  is  said  to  "  fray  a  head"  when  he  rubs  it  against  a  tree  to 
eause  the  outer  coat  to  fall  away  in  the  season  of  renewal.  These  nice  traits 
VOL.  i.  13 


290  THE    HUNTER    OF    CALAWASSEE. 

Some  grievous  chance  hath  ever  happ'd  when  on  his  scent  v 
The  first"—"  Now,  fool,"  then  Kedar  cried,  "  be  still  for  very  s 

VI. 

"  Sound,  hunters,  ere  this  idle  tale  arrest  the  sluggish  blood, 
And  lend  to  braver  hearts  than  his  yon  aged  dotard's  mood  ; 
It  is  my  oath  this  day  to  track  that  buck  unto  his  den, 
And  we  shall  see  if  he  or  me  shall  live  for  hunt  again ; — 
Two  seasons  hath  he  baffled  us,  'twere  shame  if  still  he  may, 
And  I  am  sworn,  and  heed  my  oath,  to  end  the  toil  to-day ; 
And  Lauto,  you  shall  stay  behind — I  would  not  have  you  drive ; 
If  such  the  fears  that  fill  your  heart,  the  hunt  can  never  thrive." 

VII. 

"  I'll  go,  my  master,"  cried  the  slave,  with  sorrow  in  his  tone, 
"  If  fears  are  in  old  Lauto's  heart,  they're  fears  for  you  alone ; 
Here,  Willow,  Wand,  and  Wallow  !" — three  dogs  of  famous  breed, 
That  had  a  boast  from  Rollo's  pack,  the  Norman's,  to  be  seed : — 
He  sounded  then  most  cheerily,  that  aged  slave,  and  cried, 
'Till,  from  the  kennel,  all  the  pack,  came  bounding  to  his  side ; 
He  took  the  route  his  master  bade,  and  with  a  heavy  heart, 
That  shook  with  fears  he  could  not  name,  did  Lauto  then  depart, 

VIII. 

'Twas  standing  in  a  cypress  grove,  that,  by  the  Ocketee, 
Kept  crowding  shadows  that  forbade  the  searching  eye  to  see, 
Young  Kedar  waited  long  to  hear  the  music  of  the  hounds, 
That  told  the  hunt  was  up,  and  fill'd  the  wood  with  cheering  sounds  ; 
No  sound  he  heard,  yet,  on  his  sight,  that  one-horn'd  deer  arose, 
As  speeding  on,  he  left  behind,  in  secret,  all  his  foes : — 

of  the  hunt,  by  which  the  hunter  learns  all  that  is  desirable  to  know  of  the 
game  he  seeks,  form,  however,  but  a  small  number  of  those  in  the  collection 
of  the  experienced  in  this  "  noble  arte." 


THE    HUNTEE    OF    CALAWASSEE.  291 

"  But  me  lie  shall  not  baffle  thus,"  cried  Kedar  as  he  came — 
And  lifting  up  his  rifle  then,  he  stood  with  ready  aim. 

IX. 

Three  strides  the  buck  hath  taken,  his  single  horn  on  high, 
And  then  he  stay'd  his  forward  flight,  and  look'd  with  steady  eye ; 
He  look'd  upon  the  cypress  grove  where  Kedar  watching  stood, 
Then,  turning,  took  his  easy  way  toward  the  distant  wood. 
This  madden'd  Kedar  then  to  see,  and  to  his  steed  he  gave 
Free  rein  and  rashing  spur,  and  went  as  if  some  devil  drave ; 
With  shriek  and  shout  he  bounded  on,  and  wonder'd  to  behold 
How  easy  was  the  gait  he  went,  that  deer,  along  the  wold. 


And  still  nor  horn  nor  hound  he  heard,  and  nothing  did  he  see, 
Save  that  one  deer  that,  fleeing,  seem'd  as  not  to  care  to  flee ; 
This  vex'd  young  Kedar  to  behold — a  madness  fill'd  his  blood, 
And  shouting  as  he  went,  he  flew,  with  fury  through  the  wood  ; 
He  heeded  not  for  stop  or  stay — he  look'd  not  once  behind, 
His  soul  was  in  that  fearful  chase — his  spirit  on  the  wind  ; — 
A  twilight  shade  came  o'er  the  earth,  and  through  the  wood  a  moan, 
Yet'  nothing  did  he  see  or  hear,  but  that  one  deer  alone  ! 

XI. 

The  cypress  groves  he  leaves  behind,  where,  with  impatient  heart. 
Three  goodly  hours  he  watch'd  that  day,  from  all  the  rest  apart ; 
The  long  pines  gather  round  him  now,  and  now  the  thicket  stays, 
Yet  on,  with  headlong  haste,  he  goes,  through  wild  and  rugged 

ways ;—  % 

The  deer,  still  wiling  as  he  wends,  keeps  ever  in  his  sight, 
Yet  indirect  his  forward  course,  as  careless  still  of  flight ; — 
More  furious  grew  that  hunter  then,  to  see  his  mocking  pace, 
And  feel  at  last,  his  noble  steed  was  failing  in  the  race. 


292  THE    HUNTER    OF    CALAWASSEE. 

XII. 

No  warning  sign  like  this  he  heeds,  but  with  his  oath  in  mind, 

Young  Kedar,  in  that  keen  pursuit,  is  striving  with  the  wind  ; 

The  rowel  tears  his  charger's  flanks  until  they  glisten  red, 

The  thong  now  smites  his  burning  sides  and  now  his  aching  head ; 

Yet  docile  still,  in  all  his  pain,  though  fainting  with  the  chase, 

He  strives,  that  noble  beast,  to  keep,  unfailing,  in  the  race  ; 

The  madness  grows  in  Kedar's  soul,  and  blinds  his  thought  and  will, 

Such  madness  as  must  vex  the  heart  of  him  that's  doom'd  to  ill. 

XIII. 

And  he  that  has  no  eye  to  see  his  weary  charger's  pain, 

As  little  heeds  the  baffling  wood  through  which  his  feet  must  strain  ; 

The  giant  pines  have  faded  far — the  knotted  thicket  shakes 

Its  purple  berries  round  his  brow  at  every  bound  he  takes  ; 

The  swamp  is  nigh,  the  horse's  hoofs  in  ooze  are  plashing  fast, 

God  save  him,  if  he  mean  to  save — such  chase  can  never  last ! 

The  river's  edge  is  nigh,  and  dusk,  its  solemn  shadows  rise, 

And  what  a  heavy  silence  hangs  and  broods  along  the  skies. 

XIV. 

Before  him  sleeps  the  sluggish  swamp  that  never  sees  the  day, 
And  through  its  bosom,  bounding  on,  the  deer  still  keeps  his  way ; 
Another  leap  he  gains  the  stream — another  effort  more — 
And  deeply  in  the  charger's  flanks,  the  rashing  rowel  tore  ; — 
A  sound  is  in  young  Kedar's  ears — his  hounds  are  close  behind — 
And  'tis  old  Lauto's  ciy  that  cheers  upon  that  sudden  wind  ; — 
A  warning  cry  that  vainly  seeks  to  drive  the  spell  away, 
And  check  the  fiend  that  lies  in  wait  and  hungers  for  his  prey. 

xv. 

Mad  shouts  from  Kedar  answer'd  then  old  Lauto's  kindly  cry, — 
"  Ha !  ha  I  I  have  him  now  i"  was  still  the  hunter's  wild  reply ; 


THE    HUNTEK     OF    CALAWASSEE.  293 

"  I  have  him  now — that  one-horn'd  buck — our  path  lies  fair  and  free, 
He  sinks — he  can  no  farther  run — he  lies  by  yonder  tree  ; — 
Upon  him,  Cygnet ! — he  is  ours — one  goodly  effort  more, 
By  death  and  all  the  saints,  he's  mine ! — ha !  ha !  our  hunt  is  o'er !" 
And  still  the  noble  steed  obeys,  and  through  the  swamp  he  goes, — 
The  swamp  is  past,  and,  round  his  feet,  the  dark  Che-che-see  flows. 

XVI. 

The  dark  Che-che-see  flows  along,  in  tribute  to  the  main, 
But  stops  not  Kedar's  rash  pursuit — he  spurs  his  steed  again  ; 
And  breathing  hard,  the  patient  steed  now  takes  the  gloomy  stream, 
While  rolPd  the  thunder  cloud  above,  and  sunk  the  westering  gleam. 
Old  Lauto  readi'd  the  river's  edge,  with  dim  and  straining  eye, 
And  something  like  a  struggling  steed,  a  moment  did  he  spy ; 
But  soon  the  waters  closed  above — he  look'd  beyond,  and  there 
Still  went,  a  failing  shadow  now,  with  easy  pace,  the  deer  ! 


THE  SHIP  OF  THE  PALATINES, 


THE  tradition  upon  which  the  following  legend  is  founded,  is  still,  at  the  present  day,  some- 
what current  in  the  "  Old  North  State."  Within  the  last  twenty  years,  indeed,  we  have 
seen  in  the  newspapers  a  statement  of  the  reappearance  of  the  spectre  ship  of  the  Palatines, 
"all  a-fire,"  and  have  been  edified  with  the  affidavits  of  good  citizens,  so  solemnly  impressed 
with  the  truth  of  the  apparition,  that  they  have  not  scrupled  to  make  oath  to  the  fact  before 
the  magistrates.  The  tradition — it  will  hardly  escape  the  literary  reader — is  somewhat  like 
that  upon  which  Dana  founds  his  poem  of  the  "  Buccaneer ;"  but  it  is  qf  simpler  structure, 
and  not  the  less  suitable,  perhaps,  because  of  its  simplicity,  for  metrical  purposes.  I  have 
treated  it  according  to  the  tradition,  without  seeking  to  graft  upon  it  any  of  my  own  in- 
ventions. 


A  SHAFT  of  sudden  light,  as  if  a  glance, 
Shot  from  the  fiery  eyes  of  sinking  day, 
Lights  the  green  edges  of  the  western  wave, 
And  purples  it  with  beauty.     Yet  the  sun 
Now  flames  on  Asian  summits.     Midnight  sways 
His  abdicated  realm  upon  our  shores, 
And  his  successor,  the  pursuing  moon, 
Hath  vanish'  d  jn  his  wake.     A  cloudy  veil 
Hangs  o'er  her  mansion,  and  the  twiring  stars 
Grow  dim  along  her  track.     Once  more  that  blaze, 
A  sulphury  column  o'er  the  midnight  waste, 
Darts  upward  and  prolongs  a  fitful  glow, 
Leaping  from  wave  to  wave. 

"  A  ship  on  fire, 
Crowd  sail,  and  let  us  reach  it !" 

Thus  the  cry 

Ran  through  our  vessel,  and  each  straining  eye, 
Piercing  the  solid  depth  of  dark  between, 


THE    SHIP    OF    THE    PALATINES.  295 

Beheld — through  fancies  that  with  quicken'd  birth, 
Peopled  all  the  scene  with  persons  at  their  need — 
The  wreck'd  and  perishing  wretches, — the  strong  man, 
And  trembling  woman,  and  unconscious  child, 
As,  hanging  o'er  the  eternal  precipice, 
They  cried  to  Heaven  for  succor, — cried  and  sank ! — 
Preferring  the  sure  sentence  of  the  deep, 
To  that  dread  doom,  that,  darting  on  their  steps, 
With  thousand  forked,  fiery  tongues  pursued ! 
One  moment  of  deep  terror  ! — but  the  hand 
Touch'd  not  the  cordage.     The  uplifted  voice, 
Of  order,  lapsed  in  silence.     It  was  gone, 
That  sudden  blaze,  as  suddenly ;  and  night, 
A  vast  and  shapeless  shadow,  frown'd  in  place. 
Yet  was  the  semblance,  to  each  eye  that  saw, 
A  burning  vessel,  a  majestic  barque, 
Limm'd  in  consuming  flame — erect,  yet  doomed — 
From  gunwale  up  to  top,  from  stem  to  stern, 
In  fiery  lines  articulate  and  clear, 
Each  spar,  and  shaft,  and  lineament  a-blaze, 
Glorious  in  ruin  ! 

Thus,  in  western  wilds, 
The  traveller,  in  belated  journey,  sees 
A  vision  of  destruction, — not  like  this 
A  vision  only ;  but  reality, 
So  wildly,  terribly  beautiful,  as  takes 
Possession  of  all  senses.  •  The  tall  wood 
Is  traversed  by  a  tempest  of  bright  flame, 
That,  coursing  far,  on  seraph  wing,  defies 
Restraint ;  leaps  up  to  the  inflammable  pine, 
And  fastens,  like  a  tiger,  on  its  heart. 
The  monarch  tree,  with  sky  achieving  spire, 
And  limbs  spread  out  like  patriarchal  arms, 
Exchanging  all  its  garniture  of  green, 


296  THE    SHIP    OF    THE    PALATINES. 

Is  clothed  in  fiercest  crimson — kingly  shroud 
For  more  than  kingly  shape.     The  mighty  shaft, 
Consuming,  yet  unshrinking  ! — the  broad  limbs 
Blazing,  but  -still  extended — while  the  vine, 
Supported  long  on  those  paternal  arms, 
Crackles,  and  curls,  and  shrivels,  in  the  flame, 
Like  cordage  on  the  vessel  lately  gone. 

There  is  a  deep  and  serious  faith  in  man, 
Nursed  in  his  secret  soul,  and  strengthen'd  there, 
By  numerous  stern  and  solemn  instances, 
That  finds  a  latent  but  close  sympathy, 
Betwixt  his  own  and  that  mysterious  world 
To  which  our  shadows  hasten.     Earth  may  cloud, 
Not  wholly  darken,  that  superior  light 
Which  burns  within  us.     This,  immortal  hands 
Trim  nightly ;  and  upon  our  startled  ken, 
Purged  of  its  sullen  and  unfruitful  humors, 
Betray  brief  glimpses  of  the  thing  that  was, 
And  thing  that  may  be.     Purposes  of  dread, 
To  us,  obscure  and  wondrous — not  for  us 
To  fathom  or  examine — in  HIS  will, 
Whose  will  is  monarch  over  all  that  lives, 
Life's  single  source  and  Sov'reign, — rise  in  forms 
That  soothe,  or  awe,  or  waken — shake  with  fright, 
Or  startle  into  meritorious  deed 
And  righteous  duty.     Innocence  o'erborne, 
Finds  succor  when  most  fearful ;  wan  Despair 
Grows  hopeful,  though  the  gleam  upon  his  eye, 
That  wins  him,  with  new  confidence,  to  life, 
Be  germined  by  the  vaporous  fogs  that  rise 
From  ancient  charnels  and  forbidden  graves, 
Where  rot  the  unknown  race  ; — and  crime  that  lurks, 
Ever  in  dread,  a  thing  of  hate  and  fear, 
Is  dragg'd  to  make  confession  of  his  guilt 


THE    SHIP    OF    THE    PALATINES.  297 

By  some  inexorable  shade, — some  shape — 

That  moves  the  unwitting  tongue,  the  unwilling  hand, 

In  inauspicious  moment,  to  betray 

The  one  dread  secret.     Murder  will  come  out, 

And  find  a  voice,  and  challenge  scrutiny, 

Though  seas  roll  o'er  the  victim,  and  long  years 

Brood  o'er  the  terrible  hour  that  saw  the  deed ! 

There  is  a  wild  tradition  of  these  shores, 
Still  told  by  ancient  men, — who,  in  such  blaze 
As  that  which  lately  dazzled  and  withdrew, 
See  but  a  phantom  beacon,  set  by  heaven, 
To  mark  the  period  and  the  place  of  crime. 
Familiar  to  their  eyes  that  spectral  light, 
With  each  returning  year ;  and  learned  scribes 
Have  set  their  hands  and  signets  to  the  tale 
In  solemn  record. 

Once  upon  a  time — 
Thus  runs  the  story — ere  our  fathers  yet 
Flung  off  the  sway  of  British  sov'reignty, 
A  little  band  of  German  Palatines,* 
Having  fond  hopes  from  change — it  may  be,  lured 
By  vague,  wild  dreams  of  freedom, — left  their  homes, 
And  charter'd  a  frail  vessel,  which  they  fill'd 
With  wives,  and  sons,  and  daughters, — all  their  wealth 
Of  family  and  treasure.     But  the  last 
They  screen'd  from  curious  eyes,  and,  meanly  garb'd, 
No  other  seem'd  than  helpless  destitutes, 
Bless'd  if  the  pittance,  needful  for  the  day, 
Were,  by  the  hand  of  charity,  bestowed. 
Thus  habited — thus  lowly  in  the  sight 
Of  strangers  they  embark'd.     They  cross'd  the  seas, — 
God  smiled  upon  their  voyage,  till  the  shores 


*  So  called,  as  they  came  from  the  Palatinate. 
13* 


298  THE    SHIP    OF    THE     PALATINES. 

Of  Carolina,  gathering  on  their  gaze, 

Rose  up  in  welcome,  on  the  ocean's  marge. 

Then  joy  was  in  their  hearts.     The  smiling  sun 

Look'd  on  them  from  blue  summits.    Green,  the  groves 

Woo'd  them  with  promised  shelter ;  while  the  fruits, — 

Fragrant  and  purple,  that,  in  southern  lands, 

Spring,  undemanding  labor,  at  the  word 

Of  sweet  and  sovereign  nature, — to  their  glance 

Made  all  one  Eden.     Joy,  in  every  heart, 

Burst  forth  from  tongue  and  eye ; — and  children  all, 

Thus  gladden'd,  they  forgot  the  prudent  cares 

That  garb'd  them  late  in  seeming  poverty. 

The  peril  of  the  seas  was  at  an  end — 

Their  world  before  them.     They  had  homes  to  build, 

And  time  was  precious  ; — wherefore  then  delay  ? 

They  brought  their  stores  to  light.     Their  eager  hands 

Unveil'd  their  treasures.     Little  family  gauds, 

Of  gold  and  jewels,  hidden  through  the  past, 

Long  centuries  of  danger  and  distress, 

Display'd  by  happy  hands — on  heaving  hearts, — 

And  cups  of  silver  in  more  precious  grasp 

Of  dearest  children.     Confident,  at  last, 

Of  fortune, — in  the  hope  that,  baffled  long, 

No  more  could  be  denied — they  yielded  them 

To  every  sweet  assurance. 

"  With  the  morn," 

Thus  rang  their  eager  voices  in  all  ears, 
With  iteration  fond,  rehearsing  hope, — 
"  Our  feet  shall  tread  these  shores — our  fingers  pluck 
Their  fruits — our  forms  beneath  yon  sacred  shade 
Of  forests,  that  have  felt  no  hand  but  heaven's, 
Catch  precious  dews  of  slumber.     Heaven  be  praised, — 
For  its  dear  mercies — for  this  best  of  all !" 
Thus,  like  fond  children,  full  of  fresh  delights, 


THE    SHIP    OF    THE    PALATINES.  299 

In  little  groups,  they  throng'd  the  vessel's  deck, 

Each  glad  with  pleasant  purposes — his  toils, 

His  petty  schemes  of  future  happiness — 

Where  build,  what  plant,  what  hours  to  care  devote, 

And  what  to  recreation — what  the  flowers 

Of  this  new  world  ; — and — these  were  maiden  thoughts — 

How  sweet,  when  garlanded  with  blue  and  pink 

The  evening  dance  beneath  the  spreading  oak, 

Love  darting  keenest  glances  from  the  grove, 

And,  in  its  shadow,  weaving  subtlest  charms 

To  soothe  and  still  subdue  half-willing  hearts  1 

Thus  dreaming  each,  with  some  particular  joy 

To  feed  on,  as  the  soul's  best  nutriment, 

They  mused  together ;  framing  at  the  last, 

For  absent  dear  ones  in  the  father-land, 

Glowing  dispatches,  in  whose  bright  details 

Hopes  in  a  moment  grew  to  certainties — 

With  fond  entreaties  to  the  ancient  sire, 

And  timorous  grand-dame,  doubtful  of  the  seas, 

To  follow,  and  their  forest-homes  partake. 

Noon  pass'd,  and  evening  came,  and  courtly  night, 
With  all  her  proud,  but  pale  patrician  throng, 
Sweet,  but  how  stately !     Lingering  to  the  last, 
While  yet  the  shores  lay  visible  to  sight, 
Our  blue-eyed  wanderers  hung  with  eager  eyes 
Upon  the  yellow  sands,  the  green-plumed  pines, 
Tall  warriors,  set  as  watchers  on  the  deep, 
In  close  array  and  serried  rank  and  file. 
But,  with  the  darkness  they  withdrew — with  hearts 
How  joyful — with  a  thousand  hopes  in  one, 
And  that  how  full  of  child-significance, 
In  the  one  word — "  To-morrow !" 

But  to  them, 
That  morrow,  with  its  wealth  of  promises, 


300  THE     SHIP     OF    THE     PALATINES. 

Came  never !     Fatal  was  their  sad  mistake — 

That  vain  display  of  treasure,  shown  to  eyes 

Which  gloated,  with  an  eager,  fierce  delight, 

On  the  bright  vision.     lii  the  master's  heart 

Rose  up  the  hungry  fiend  of  avarice  ; — 

A  greedy  pang,  a  lust  that  had  no  fear, 

Work'd  fearfully  within  him.     In  his  eyes 

Glitter'd  the  secret  thirst,  that  might  have  taught, 

Meet  prudence  to  his  simple  passengers, 

Had  they  been  vigilant  watchers  with  their  eyes, 

Less  greedy  than  their  hearts.     But  they  had  grown 

Suspicionless  beneath  prosperity ; 

Saw  not  the  malice — had  no  instinct  dread 

Of  that  so  sudden  passion  which  should  work, 

Even  in  the  moment  of  their  sweetest  hope, 

For  their  destruction.     From  their  eyes  he  shrank, 

The  master — sought  his  cabin — conn'd  his  charts — 

Fled  from  temptation — but  his  brooding  thought 

Clung  to  the  one  possession.     Through  the  day, 

A  single  image  glanced  before  his  gaze, 

Of  all  those  golden  spoils  within  his  grasp, 

Blinding  and  dazzling ;  baffling  the  better  nature 

Stifling  the  pleading  conscience,  and  with  iron, 

Of  heated  avarice,  searing  Pity's  eyes. 

He  had  no  other  thought.     Within  his  ears, 

Ever  a  single  voice  was  whispering — 

So  softly,  so  soliciting  ! — that  said, — 

"  Midnight  will  hide  the  deed — an  hour  is  all — 

Wherefore  thy  terror — thou  shouldst  be  a  man, 

And  make  thyself  forever  !" 

'Twas  enough ! 

The  demon  triumph'd.     Then  the  master  sought 
His  crew,  and  with  like  argument  o'ercame 
The  germ  of  mercy  in  their  stubborn  souls. 


THE    SHIP    OF    THE    PALATINES.  301 

They  swore,  with  linked  hands,  a  horrid  oath, 

Fidelity,  in  blood,  to  one  another — 

And  hell, — and  then  they  whisper'd  o'er  their  plans 

Of  cruelty  and  safety.     With  the  night, 

Whfn  darkness  fill'd  the  close  abode  where  slept 

Thf  i-  wearied  victims, — silently  they  stole, 

X  oh  to  his  hateful  task.     With  stealthy  care 

ne  fatal  knife  was  lifted  o'er  the  breast 
Jf  each  strong  sleeper.     At  a  signal  given, 
They  struck,  and  struck  together, — but  one  blow — 
And  writhing,  but  scarce  shrieking  in  his  pain, 
The  sleeper  slept  Iprever.     One  hoarse  cry, 
Stifled  in  utterance, — one  spasmodic  fling 
Of  upward  striving  arms, — and  all  was  hush'd 
In  burdensome  silence  ; — so  oppressive  then, 
That  the  fierce  criminal,  shuddering  at  his  post, 
Paused,  hopeful,  that  his  victim  still  might  groan, 
And  half  implored  the  mercy  of  the  struggle, 
That  he  might  feel  the  deed  was  yet  undone  ! 
But  brief  cessation  from  their  bloody  toils 
Claim'd  terror.     Conscience  flung  aside  and  hush'd — 
Then  follow'd  the  last  dreadful  sacrifice  ! — 
Women  and  children — shrieking  innocents, 
Pleading  and  clinging  to  their  murderers, 
And  wondering  that  the  father  came  not  nigh — 
The  husband,  brother, — while  the  threat'ning  blade, 
Blood-dripping  gleam'd  above  their  dying  eyes. 
All  perish'd — prayer  and  supplication  vain — 
Mammon  to  Moloch  made  his  sacrifice, 
And,  elbow-deep  in  blood,  the  murderers, 
Stood  cowering  within  the  darkness,  half  afraid, 
Lest,  through  the  hold,  the  innocent  starry  eyes 
Summon'd  to  look  by  each  escaping  soul, 
Might  pierce,  in  passing,  and  lay  bare  the  deed. 


302  THE    SHIP    OF    THE    PALATINES. 

A  moment,  and  in  contemplation  brief, 

The  criminals  found  resolve.     With  hurried  toils, 

They  gather'd  up  the  wealth,  whose  fetal  lures, 

Had  won  them  to  the  guilt  of  bloody  hands, 

And,  with  their  ill-got  treasure  made  secure, 

They  hastened  to  their  boats.     But  first,  to  hide 

All  traces  of  their  footsteps  and  their  crime, 

They  plied  with  busy  care  the  blazing  brand ; 

And  in  the  bowels  of  the  fated  ship, 

Left  flaming  torches.     Speeding  to  the  shore, 

They  watch'd  the  fierce  destruction.     From  the  hold, 

Shot  up,  in  thousand  tongues  and  »jets  of  fire, 

The  raging  flames  ascended.     On  the  masts, 

The  deck,  the  gunwale,  spars  and  sails,  they  seized, 

With  sudden  fury.     All  a-blaze,  the  ship 

Darted  along  the  deep,  a  form  complete, 

Complex  in  lineament,  but  subtly  wrought 

In  lines  of  blazing  light.     And  thus  she  sped — 

No  wind  impelling — close  beside  the  shore, 

Where  stood  the  gasping  criminals — their  eyes, 

Wide-staring  on  that  wond'rous  spectacle. 

Thus,  to  and  fro,  the  livelong  night  she  went, 

They  watching  still,  incapable  of  flight. 

By  day,  a  charr'd  and  dismal  skeleton, 

She  frown'd  upon  them,  as,  in  restless  drift, 

She  floated  slowly  by  the  yellow  sands — 

Now  gone  from  sight,  now  suddenly,  once  more, 

Gliding  above  the  self-same  dreary  spot 

Which  saw  the  deed  most  dark  and  damnable ! 

All  day,  as  by  some  awful  spell  enchain'd, 

They  linger'd  by  the  shore.     Now,  in  the  wood, 

Hiding  their  trembling  forms — now,  peering  forth, 

With  the  deceitful  hope  that,  from  their  eyes, 

The  dreaded  sight  was  gone, — beneath  the  wave, 


THE    SHIP    OF    THE    PALATINES.  303 

Hiding  their  secret.     But  when  night  once  more 

Swept  with  starr'd  train  along  the  accustom'd  march, 

Again  the  spectre  vessel  heaves  in  sight ; — 

The  bright  flames  darting  upwards,  spreading  fast 

O'er  sails,  spars,  cordage !     Blazing  as  before, 

Yet  unconsuming  still,  the  phantom  barque 

Bears  right  for  shore.     Too  terrible  the  sight 

Upon  the  eyes  of  those  most  wretched  men. 

They  fled, — and  in  the  forest  wilderness, 

'Mongst  beasts  of  prey,  and  tribes  more  savage  still, 

Buried  their  heads,  their  secret  and  their  hopes — 

Never  their  fears  !     Years,  generations  pass'd : — 

The  living  are  the  dead  !     What  fate  befel 

These  hapless  and  still  hopeless  criminals, 

The  chronicles  reveal  not ; — but  the  tale, 

Still  told  by  wise  and  venerable  men, 

Declared  they  went  unpunish'd,  save  by  God, — 

And  that  the  spectre  vessel,  still  a-blaze, 

Upon  that  fearful  anniversary, 

Appears  with  night,  and  still  must  re-appear, 

Until,  upon  each  man  child,  from  the  loins 

Of  those  most  bloody  men,  the  avenger's  hand 

Hath  fatally  fallen, — when  the  spectre  ship, 

Her  work  complete,  all  blazing  as  she  goes, 

Shall  lay  her  aching  ribs  in  ocean's  caves  ! 


THE   TRYST   OF   AC  ATM  A. 


FAIR  'fall  the  Indian  maiden,  who  sits  by  yonder  stream, 

For,  though  her  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  she  dreams  a  happy  dream ; 

She  waits  Panaco's  coming, — he  left  her  for  the  shore, 

Where,  bursting  through  the  Darien  rocks,  Atrato's  waters  roar ; 

A  poison'd  javelin  fill'd  his  hand,  a  knife  was  by  his  side, 

And  countless  were  the  valiant  chiefs  beneath  his  arm  that  died ; — 

A  brave  among  the  bravest,  the  first  to  lead  was  he, 

When  down  the  mountain  warriors  sped  to  meet  the  Caribbee. 

n. 

A  fear  is  in  Acayma's  heart,  and  yet  that  heart  is  glad, 
For,  bless'd  with  brave  Panaco's  love,  it  could  not  well  be  sad ; 
Three  moons  ago  he  sought  her  tent, — "  Where  is  the  maid  ?"  said  he, 
"  I  seek  but  one  of  all  the  tribe  that  wanders  by  the  sea." — 
His  eye  is  on  Acayma, — she  dares  not  look  on  high, 
Though  well  she  knows,  that  happy  hour,  she  stands  beneath  his 

eve, — 

His  hand  is  on  the  maiden's  hand, — she  felt  her  bosom  heave ; — 
He  kept  the  willing  heart  and  hand,  she  had  no  power  to  give. 

in. 

'Twas  by  the  rapids  of  the  stream  that  down  the  mountain  fell, 
Just  where  Biloxi's  iron  head  looks  o'er  Senonee's  dell ; 
"  I'll  watch  these  babbling  waters,  and  they  shall  speak  for  thee ;" 
The  maiden  cried, — "  and  tell  me  why  thou  lingerest  by  the  sea ; — 


-r  THE    TEYST    OF    ACAYMA.  305 

I  know  thou  dost  not  love  me." — Then  lightly  di.d  he  reacli, 
And,  sprinkling  with  the  falling  drops,  he  stay'd  her  idle  speech ; 
Then  laughing  Jong,  and  looking  back,  he  bounded  down  the  steep, 
And,  in  her  very  joy  of  heart,  the  maiden  could  but  weep. 

IV. 

But  weary  grow  the  lengthening  hours,  and  shadows  of  distress 
Now  haunt  the  heart,  that,  in  its  love,  still  finds  its  loneliness ; 
The  tears  of  joy  that  fill'd  her  eye  when  first  Panaco  went, 
Are  dry — but  down  the  silent  rocks  her  gloomy  glance  is  sent ; 
A  thousand  fears  are  in  her  thought — she  plucks  and  rends  the 

flowers, 

And  anxious  looks,  where,  in  the  sky,  a  heavy  tempest  lowers ; 
Though  none  may  better  guide  the  bark  or  trim  the  sail  than  he, 
Still  swells  within  her  heart  the  hope  he  be  not  on  the  sea. 

v. 

Too  rash  and  too  resolved  his  soul,  too  prone  to  rove  afar, 
To  launch  the  boat,  to  lead  the  hunt,  to  urge  the  tribe  to  war ; 
She  weeps  to  think,  to  meet  her  wish,  and  win  her  love,  he  speeds 
Where  yellow  waters  boil  in  rage  among  the  cavern  weeds  : 
He  promised  ere  he  left  her,  to  bring  for  her  that  day, 
The  brightest  pearl  that  ever  slept  'neath  the  gulf  of  Urabay ; 
To  rob  the  sea-maid  of  her  shells,  and  from  the  snake-god's  home, 
Tear  the  green  gem  that  lights  his  crest,  and  rend  his  crystal  foam.* 

VI. 

The  noontide  hour  is  going  fast, — she  lingers  still  and  sighs, 
For  thicker  yet  the  shadows  crowd,  and  gather  on  her  eyes ; 

*  The  tradition  is,  that  there  is  a  great  sea-snake  of  the  Gnlf,  which  the 
Indians  call  the  king-snake,  or  god-snake,  whose  head  is  one  entire  emerald 
which  lights  the  ocean  for  many  leagues ;  that  he  sleeps  in  a  cavern  of  the 
purest  crystal,  which  is  beautiful,  in  fantastic  forms,  like  the  combing  foam  of 
the  sea  when  petrified. 


806  THE    TRYST    OF    ACAYMA. 

A  shadow  o'er  her  spirit  steals,  more  darkly,  deeply  dread, 
Than  that  which  closes  now  in  storm  above  the  mountain's  head ; 
Yet  watches  she  the  falling  wave,  and,  to  her  trembling  ears, 
A  murmur,  like  an  omen  comes — what  is  it  that  she  hears  ? 
'Tis  sure  Panaco's  voice, — but  no ! — ah,  sweet,  delusive  dream, 
'Twas  but  some  loosen'd  rock  above  that  tumbled  down  the  stream. 

VII. 

She  knows  not  of  her  sorrow  yet, — she  chides  at  his  delay ; 

Oh !  would  she  thus  reproach  him,  if  she  knew  what  made  him 

stay  ? — 

Could  she  dream  that  while  she  blamed  him,  he>  battled  for  his  life, — 
Could  she  see  the  Spanish  foeman,  and  Panaco  'neath  his  knife  ? 
Alas  !  for  thee,  Acayma, — what  though  thy  lover  swore, 
He  will  not  come  to  bless  thee  now, — he  lies  by  yonder  shore ; 
And  though  thy  tears  were  torrents,  like  those  adown  yon  glen, 
They  cannot  move  Panaco, — he  will  never  come  again. 


VASCO    NUNEZ; 

OR    THE    PROPHECY    OF   THE    ASTROLOGER. 
A    LEGEND    OF    DAEIEN. 


THE  reader  needs  no  information  in  respect  to  the  renowned  Vasco  Nunez  de  Balboa,  tho 
discoverer  of  the  Pacific,  and  one  of  the  most  noble  of  all  the  cavaliers  that  followed  in  the 
footsteps  of  Columbus  and  Hernan  Cortes.  Of  the  astrologer,  Micer  Codro,  less  is  known ; 
but  the  pathetic  facts  in  his  career,  as  far  as  we  possess  them,  may  be  found  in  the  pleasant 
and  instructive  volume  of  Irving,  which  he  devotes  to  the  companions  of  Columbus.  The 
legend  which  follows  supplies  its  own  facts,  and  needs  no  further  introduction. 


TRIUMPHANT  on  a  peak  of  Darien, 
The  eagle  conqueror  that,  in  one  bold  flight, 
Had  scaled  each  high  impediment  of  cloud, 
And  stood  above  the  summits  of  the  storm, — 
Balboa, — on  the  topmost  crag  that  crown'd 
The  narrow  isthmus,  which  between  two  seas 
Spread  barrier  walls,  denying  their  embrace, — 
Rose,  silent,  with  his  eye  uplift  to  .heaven, 
A  moment,  as  in  prayer  and  thankfulness, 
Then,  hopefully,  he  cast  his  glance  below, 
And  trembled  in  his  rapture. 

'Neath  him  roU'd 

The  broad  Pacific,  never  yet  before 
Unveil'd  to  European !     What  were  then 
Th'  emotions  of  that  conqueror,  in  whose  toils 
Such  courage,  with  such  great  endurance  mix'd, 
Were  the  best  proofs  of  virtue.     Who  shall  tell 
The  struggling,  glad  sensations  of  the  soul, 


308  VASCO    NUNEZ. 

So  highly  reaching,  when, — to  crown  at  last 
The  hope  so  fruitful  in  great  enterprise, 
And  noble  consummation — on  his  eyes 
Burst  forth  that  mighty  prospect — that  deep  sea, 
In  the  virginity  of  its  pure  waves, 
Unrifled  of  a  charm — for  the  first  time 
Won  to  a  mortal's  arms  ! — or,  who  conceive, 
When  on  the  summit  of  that  isthmus  throned, 
Higher  than  sovereign,  and  on  either  hand 
Ranged  the  two  sister  seas,  for  the  first  time 
Given  to  each  other ;  he,  that  gallant  chief, 
Most  noble  and  most  valiant  of  the  sons 
Spain  sent  on  this  great  service,  stood  alone, 
And  look'd  upon  his  conquest  ?     Who  shall  tell 
The  melancholy  pride  of  his  great  soul, 
When  the  achievement,  long  withheld,  and  won 
Only  by  toil  at  last — the  fearless  toil 
Of  true  adventure  and  achievement  great, 
That  greater  grew  from  trial — was  his  own ; 
And,  to  a  spirit  as  aspiring,  he 
Added  a  name  and  triumph,  scarce  below 
That  of  the  "  Admiral,"  who  led  the  way, 
First,  in  this  path  of  glory  ! — 

With  glad  eye, 

And  soaring  sense,  and  spirit  almost  drunk, 
In  its  excess  of  rapture,  dumb  he  stood, 
And  gazed  upon  the  waters.     Were  these,  then, 
The  billows  of  that  Indian  sea,  which  clasps 
In  its  capacious  bosom,  those  broad  isles 
Of  boundless,  unimaginable  wealth, 
In  gold  and  gems  o'erflowing,  locking  in 
The  spices  and  the  perfumes  of  the  East — 
The  world  of  spoil,  the  field  of  enterprise, 
Meet  for  that  ocean  chivalry,  to  whom 


VASCO    NUNEZ.  309 

The  sea  and  land,  the  wild,  and  wilder  yet 

The  savages  that  sway  them,  have  no  bar  ? 

Was  this  that  glorious  sea — or,  prouder  still, 

Had  fortune  yielded  to  his  daring  aim 

Some  lonely,  lock'd-up  ocean  of  the  wild, 

Some  savage  realm  of  water,  undisturb'd, 

Save  by  the  Indian's  bark,  when,  at  the  dawn, 

He  plunges  through  its  silvery  depths,  unscared, 

For  the  pearl  oyster,  and  at  eve  returns, 

Laden  and  glutted  with  its  precious  spoils, 

To  his  lone  wigwam  by  the  reedy  shore  ? 

Proud  were  the  thoughts  of  that  young  conqueror, 

But  with  a  due  humility,  that  taught 

Meet  homage  to  the  Deity  who  gave 

The  genius  for  the  conquest,  and  laid  bare 

The  portals  of  the  empire  and  the  deep  ! 

Tears  glitter'd  in  his  great  eyes,  while  he  gazed ; 

His  gleaming  sword  was  laid  upon  the  heights, 

And  his  strong  hands  uplifted ;  while  his  knees, 

Taught  by  the  gratitude  swelling  in  his  heart, 

Bow'd  at  that  primitive  altar  of  the  rock, 

That  glow'd  in  day's  first  sunshine.     Thus,  alone, 

A  moment,  pray'd  Balboa.     No  one  shared 

The  spectacle  that  gladden'd  his  fond  eyes, 

Or  felt  the  secret  sentiment  of  pride 

That  in  his  heart  taught  worship — till  he  bade 

.The  host  ascend  the  summits  which  his  feet 

Had  singly  scaled,  and  gather  at  a  glance, 

The  marvellous  empire  hidden  in  the  waste, 

Whose  secrets  thus  were  won. 

They  came,  they  saw ; 

Like  him,  the  host  sank  prostrate  on  their  knees, 
While  audible  hearts  of  worship  breathed  in  prayer, 
And  one  strong  shout  from  that  fierce  chivalry 


310  VASCO    NUNEZ. 

Spoke  all  the  dark  devotion  of  their  race, 

As,  at  the  bidding  of  their  chief,  the  cross, 

Hewn  from  the  tallest  pine,  was  lifted  up, 

A  symbol  of  their  service  and  their  faith, 

In  triumph  o'er  their  heads.     Then  every  eye 

Grew  pregnant  -with  its  tears — some  upward  turn'd 

To  heaven  in  thanks  and  gladness — others  again, 

In  wonder  not  to  be  appeased,  and  love, 

That  had  its  source  in  wonder  and  delight, 

To  the  broad  realm  of  ocean  at  their  feet. 

n. 

'Twas  midnight,  and  the  stars  were  in  the  heavens, 
Each  the  proud  centre  of  a  countless  host, 
Each  with  a  world  of  glory  in  its  glance 
Such  as  the  orient  knows  not.     Not  a  cloud 
Dull'd  their  profusion  ;  and  upon  that  sea, 
Soft,  with  a  billowy  rising,  and  a  swell, 
Like  the  voluptuous  heavings,  in  the  breast 
Of  some  warm  princess  of  the  passionate  East, 
They  flung  their  emulous  and  repeated  lights, 
With  a  most  profligate  glory.     From  the  south, 
Where,  all  day,  it  had  wander'd  seeking  flowers, 
And  whence,  with  wing  embarrass'd  still  with  spoil, 
It  came  diffusing  odor,  stole  the  wind, — 
That  robber  of  the  close  that  feeds  the  waste, 
And  stirr'd  with  gentlest  ripplings  the  great  sea, 
Until,  with  musical  murmurs  to  the  shore, 
It  roll'd  its  little  billows  to  the  reeds, 
That  straightway  took  a  voice  most  like  their  own, 
And  join'd  the  natural  concert ; — sweet,  sad  tones, 
The  music  of  that  spirit  whose  brooding  wing 
Ever  gives  tone  to  earth's  vast  provinces, 
Her  seas,  and  sloping  shores,  and  the  great  heights, 


VASCO     NUNEZ.  311 

Her  mountains,  vast  world-citadels,  that  need 
The  blue  wings  of  such  spirit  to  subdue 
Their  rudeness,  and  such  voices  as  it  knows, 
To  harmonize,  and  with  due  sympathies, 
Blend  meetly,  the  wild  aspect  of  the  crag 
With  valleys,  and  the  swelling  tides  of  sea ! 
'Twas  midnight,  but  the  chieftain  did  not  sleep ! 
Still,  as  he  lay  upon  the  summit  crag, 
Glided  on  the  gradual  hosts  of  starry  eyes, 
Sweet  smiling  in  his  own ;  and  to  his  ear, 
Still  upward  rose  those  voices  of  the  wave, 
Bidding  him  welcome ;  and  around  the  heights, 
With  song  of  winds  in  commerce  with  the  pines, 
Such  music  of  the  wilderness  as  best 
Persuades  the  sense  to  rapture,  while  the  dream 
Finds  ever  a  shape  of  beauty  for  the  eyes, 
And  still  a  ravishing  feeling  for  the  soul, 
That  sweetly  takes  possession  of  a  thought, 
Then  wholly  given  to  nature.     There  he  lay, 
Fond  listening  to  those  tones  of  land  and  sea, 
With  speech  mysterious  to  the  worshipping  sea, — 
Voices  to  voices  calling,  hill  to  hill, 
And  ocean  to  old  forests,  through  still  hours, 
Keeping  up  a  solemn  chorus,  and  soft  chant, 
Such  as  soothes  solitude  on  lonely  heights, 
And  takes  away  the  sorrow  from  the  waste. 

How  could  he  sleep  ?     The  creature  of  his  dreams, 
That  for  so  long  had  brought  him  wakeful  hours, — 
The  vague  conceit,  the  great  expectancy, 
The  wondrous  fond  illusion,  the  wild  hope, 
The  quenchless  thirst,  the  matchless  passion,  all, 
That  show'd  him  ever  glimpses  of  great  heights 
Attain'd,  and  empire  won,  and  fame  secure, 


312  VASCO    NUNEZ. 

For  the  .Ml  worshipping  future, — all  the  dreams 

That  wio  ight  his  soul's  ambition  from  the  hour 

He  first  *iad  dream'd  of  glory, — were  his  own  ! — 

The  pri/'v  of  a  long  dream  was  his  at  last ! 

The  c?  ./wn  of  a  long  strife  was  realized  ! 

That  hour  had  changed  hiin,  and  possession  won, 

He  was  no  more  the  creature  he  had  been, 

When  boyhood  was  a  season  of  delight, 

And  hope  had  many  a  semblance.     When,  amid 

The  festive  throng,  for  mirth  and  music  bent, 

At  evening  by  the  waters,  or  attuned 

To  a  more  fell  employment,  he  was  found 

Rashly  adventurous,  daring  still  the  first, 

Where  all  were  daring — in  the  tented  field, 

Join'd  in  close  combat  with  the  tawny  Moor, 

A  kingdom  on  his  arm.     The  ruthless  mood, 

Indifferent  to  aught  but  valorous  deed 

And  bloody  retribution — all  were  gone  ! 

And,  in  their  stead,  a  loftier  spirit  came, 

Keeping  him  watchful.     His  adventurous  mind 

Felt  its  own  wing,  and  knew  its  strength  at  last 

And  soar'd  into  the  heavens ;  and,  eagle-like, 

He  brooded  'mong  those  mountains  through  the  night, 

And  meditated,  with  the  matin  chime, 

His  flight  across  the  waters  ; — where  to  lead 

He  knew  not ;  but  his  dreams,  his  waking  dreams, 

Peopled  the  wilds  beyond,  with  glorious  forms 

And  empires  of  the  sun.     He  too  would  give 

To  Castile  and  to  Leon  a  new  world ; 

And  more  than  he,  the  mighty  Genoese, 

Another  ocean  with  its  tribute  wealth, 

And  uncomplaining  waters. 

He  would  yield 
His  country  such  a  treasure,  and  a  realm, 


VASCO     NUNEZ.  313 

Of  such  unbounded  wealth  and  eminence 
As  should  eclipse  each  jewel  in  her  crown, 
The  gift  of  former  sons.     Thus  mighty  souls 
Commune  with  their  own  purposes.     Their  pride, 
That  seeks  the  conquest,  sees  the  hour  beyond, 
When,  with  a  generous,  free  magnificence, 
They  fling  the  golden  guerdon  they  have  brought, 
On  shrines  which  still  embody  to  their  souls 
A  power  for  love  and  worship.     Sovereigns  thus 
Find  ioyalty,  faith,  and  sweet  humility ; 
And  beauty,  the  fond  homage  of  a  heart 
That  never  dared  to  breathe  its  passionate  love, 
Yet  yearn'd  the  while  to  bless  and  to  endow. 

Thus,  on  the  rocks  of  Darien,  lay  the  chief, 
Brooding  with  sweet,  proud  fancies,  while  the  stars 
Lapsed  overhead  above,  and  still  below 
Lay  his  exhausted  followers,  wrapt  in  sleep, 
That  knew  no  dream  like  his.     At  last,  a  voice 
Aroused  him,  and  the  weight  of  a  strong  hand, 
But  not  in  anger,  on  his  shoulder  fell. 
He  started  from  his  trance.     Beside  him  stood 
One  of  the  wise  men  of  that  dreaming  age, 
A  fond,  self-mortified  spirit, — one  who  sought 
Its  thoughts  in  realms  forbidden — an  old  man, 
Whose  spirit,  through  long  abstinence  and  toil, 
Deep  study,  musings  vast  and  infinite, 
And  rigorous  penance,  in  its  age  had  grown 
Familiar  with  the  stars.     To  him  they  were 
Not  less  than  wizard  lights,  and  presences, 
Of  soul  and  speech.     To  him  they  bared  the 
That  held  the  future,  and  they  laid  the  past 
Before  him  as  an  open  scroll,  writ  full 
Of  all  familiar  characters.     Unveil'd  to  him, 
VOL.  i.  14 


314:  VASCO    NUNEZ. 

All  time  grew  present ; — and,  in  rocky  cells, 
In  ruin'd  castles,  and  secluded  caves, 
By  seas,  in  lonely  forests,  and  afar 
From  human  converse,  still  lie  conn'd  the  page, 
Nightly,  of  mortal  story.     He  could  read 
All  futures.     He  could  conjure  shapes  at  will, 
Into  the  speaker's  presence  ; — so  his  fame 
Ran  'mongst  the  Spanish  host ; — and  such  as  he 
Was  ever  sought  and  honor'd  by  the  chief 
That  toil'd  in  wild  adventure.     Thus  they  made 
Apparent,  the  large  glory  in  their  search  ; 
Their  wild,  ambitious  cachings,  and  the  dream 
That  still  ennobles  conquest,  with  the  thirst 
For  something,  which  the  world  may  not  bestow. 
Such  was  the  aged  man,  who,  on  that  night, 
Stood  by  the  musing  conqueror,  as  he  lay 
Upon  the  mountain  peak  of  Darien. 
He  rose,  and  they  together  look'd  below, 
Where,  flashing  ever  out  beneath  the  stars, 
Gleam'd  the  calm  waters,  the  Pacific  plain, 
Repeating  all  the  glories  in  the  heavens. 
Thus  look'd  they  both  in  silence  for  awhile, 
Till  the  young  chief,  with  gladness  in  his  tones, 
Cried  to  the  aged  man  : 

"  Hast  thou  no  voice, 

My  father,  for  this  triumph  ?     Here,  at  last, 
We  have  laid  bare  the  secret  of  the  West, — 
New  worlds, — new  oceans, — people — countless  lands, 
And  empires  yet  to  win.     What  toil  was  ours  ! 
Yet  vainly  have  these  perilous  heights  and  wilds 
Opposed  us  in  our  march — vainly  our  fears, 
Striven  to  retard — vainly  these  barbarous  tribes 
Raised  their  red  spears,  or  hurl'd  their  feathery  shafts. 
These  have  we  overcome,  and  Balboa  now 


VASCO    NUNEZ.  315 

May  vaunt  his  conquests  on  the  kindred  page 
That  glows  with  Colon's  glory.     Have  I  not 
Given  a  new  ocean  to  our  sovereign's  rule, 
A  tributary  world,  a  myriad  race  . 

Of  subjects,  and  a  vast  and  nameless  wealth, 
Not  to  be  number'd  ?     Have  I  not  outspread 
Here,  to  the  embraces  of  a  foreign  breeze, 
That  blossoms  in  its  odor,  borne  afar, 
Doubtless,  from  gardens  of  the  orient  realm, 
Hard  by  to  Ophir — his  unconquer'd  flag ; 
And,  on  this  rock,  beheld  from  either  sea, 
Planted  the  sacred  standard  of  our  faith, 
The  hallow'd  cross ;  in  token  that  the  wild 
Is  now  the  care  of  Christ,  henceforth  to  be 
The  creature  of  his  people  ?     These  are  deeds, 
Good  father,  that  shall  never  be  forgot ; 
And  Balboa's  name,  when  he  shall  be  no  more, 
Shall  have  its  chronicler  to  spell  the  ear, 
And  on  the  lips  of  story  sound  as  well, 
As  any  in  the  record.     How  will 't  read, 
With  "  Vasco  Nunez  de  Balboa,"  to  write 
"  Colon  the  Admiral"—"  world-finders  both :" 

The  Magian  paused  a  space,  and  to  his  eye — 
Where^brightness,  strangely  mingled  up  with  gloom, 
Wore  an  appalling  lustre,  not  unlike 
Such  as  our  dreams  for  spirit  forms  provide — 
A  darker  shade,  a  deeper,  sadder  hue, 
And,  it  might  be,  a  large  but  single  tear, 
Gather'd  unbidden.     Calmly  then  he  spoke. 

"  My  son,  at  Palos,  by  the  convent  walls 
Of  La  Rabida,  your  old  mother  dwells  : 
I  saw  her,  when  we  last  departed  thence, 


316  VASCO    NUNEZ. 

On  this  adventure.     Not  to  me  unknown, 

The  future,  as  you  found  it.     You  were  then, 

Already,  known  to  glory — so  men  call 

Words  from  their  fellow-men — and  'twas  her  pride 

To  speak  of  you  as  all  the  country  spake. 

I  could  not  check  the  current  of  her  speech, 

Nor  were  it  kind  to  do  so  ;  but,  aroused, 

And  ravish'd  with  the  subject,  when  she  grew 

Wild  with  imagined  triumphs  and  great  spoils, 

And  all  the  gauds  of  fortune — in  my  Heart 

I  sorrow'd  for  her  strange  simplicity. 

I  did  not  tell  her  that  her  eyes  in  vain 

Would,  till  the  sunset,  o'er  the  waves  look  out 

For  her  son's  caravel.     I  did  not  say, 

What,  well  persuaded,  I  might  well  have  said, 

That  all  your  triumphs  were  to  end  at  last 

In  a  base  dungeon  and  a  bloody  grave, 

And  ignominious  scaffold — 

"  Ah  !  you  start ! 

But  'tis  my  grief,  as  'tis  thy  destiny, 
That  I  should  mourn  for  that  I  must  foresee, 
And  thou  escape  not.     Hearken,  then,  awhile. 
Thou  wilt  remember,  on  our  voyage  out, 
I  traced  thy  fortune.     Thou  didst  seek  of  me 
Its  features  ;  but  thy  quest  I  still  withstood, 
As  aiding  not  thy  service  to  be  known, 
And,  haply,  moving  thy  too  soaring  thought, 
Too  much  to  dwell  upon  it.     But  with  me 
It  grew  a  settled  study.     From  my  art — 
Of  which  in  praise  I  speak  not,  when  I  say 
It  has  not  fail'd  me  oft — I  linger'd  o'er 
Thy  varying  fortunes.     Every  step  thou  took'st, 
Whether  in  peace  or  war,  in  court  or  camp, 
In  ease  or  peril,  I  beheld  at  large. 


VASCO     NUNEZ.  317 

I  saw  thee  trace  thy  journey  to  the  wild — 
Thy  each  reverse — thy  final,  full  success, 
Until  the  mighty  waters,  which  now  roll 
Incessant  to  our  feet,  proclaim'd  thy  fame  ; 
And  to  the  daring  soldier  gave  the  praise 
Of  calm  forethought,  deliberation  wise, 
And  an  intelligent  sense  that  all  confirms 
In  this  thy  conquest.     Here  then  are  we  now — 
So  far,  the  fortune  I  have  traced  is  true  !" 

"  What  more,  what  more  ?"  impatient,  then,  the  chief 
Ask'd  of  the  aged  man.     "  Let  me  know  all — 
I  do  esteem  thy  art,  and  well  believe 
Thou  lovest  me  as  thy  son.     Thou  wilt  not  speak 
What  'twere  not  well  to  hear ;  and  well  I  know, 
Thy  wisdom,  if  ill  fortune  do  betide, 
May  guide  my  wilder'd  bark,  and  bring  it  safe. 
Speak  then  at  once,  nor  think  that  at  thy  speech, 
Though  fearful  be  its  form,  my  soul  shall  quake, 
Or  my  knees  tremble.     Let  me  know  it  all, 
That  I  may  battle  boldly  with  my  fate, 
However  vain  the  struggle,  as  becomes 
A  son  of  Spain,  a  warrior  of  the  wild, 
A  spirit  prone  to  combat  with  the  seas, 
And  brave  them  at  their  wildest.     Speak,  old  man ; 
Give  thy  thought  words,  and  let  my  fortune  stand 
Before  me  on  the  instant." 

The  magian  spoke : 

"  When  in  the  gather'd  stars  thy  fate  I  read, 
In  one  remote  and  solitary  light, 
I  saw  its  bane,  and  baleful  influence. 
A  single  star,  thus  quarter'd  in  the  heavens. 
Teem'd  with  malicious  auguries,  and  shook 


318  VASCO    NUNEZ. 

All  fires  malign  upon  thee.     It  was  then 

I  sought  its  secret  power,  and  early  read, 

That,  while  afar,  in  the  extremest  east, 

It  kept  its  foreign  station,  thou  wert  safe ; 

But  when,  with  daring  wing,  it  took  its  way, 

And,  where  the  evening  hangs  her  golden  lamp 

O'er  the  sun's  chambers,  shook  its  lurid  fires, 

That  hour  to  thee  was  perilously  dark, 

And  death,  a  bloody,  ignominious  death, 

Was  gather'd  in  its  verge.     That  hour's  at  hand  !- 

Look  forth  into  the  west.     Behold,  apart, 

From  all  communion  with  its  fellow  lights, 

Where,  with  audacious  blaze  and  angry  beam, 

That  fate  casts  forth  its  fires.     Redly  it  burns, 

And,  as  exulting  in  the  near  approach 

To  the  destruction  of  its  victim,  takes 

A  subtle  halo  round  it.     There  are  stars, 

That  to  the  eye  of  mortals  seem  but  stars, 

Yet  are  they  evil  spirits.     Such  is  this. 

They  are  not  of  the  class  with  which  they  roam, 

Their  lights  are  not  like  those  which  burn  around, 

Nor  have  they  the  like  genial  influence  ; 

They  hold  a  fearful  power  o'er  earthly  things, 

Man,  and  the  worlds  about  him.     O'er  the  earth, 

And  on  the  waters,  they  still  exercise  ; 

They  have  their  moods,  and,  bitterly  at  war 

With  all  God's  works,  they  seek  for  their  annoy ; 

Impede  their  fortunes,  or  attend  them  on, 

Even  to  success,  as,  with  thee,  this  hath  done, 

That,  when  they  hurl  them  down  to  the  abyss, 

The  height  shall  be  a  perilous  one  they  leave. 

The  gentler  lights  of  heavenly  providence 

Shrink  from  their  foul  contagion,  till  they  stand 

Apart,  and  from  the  rest  all  separate. 


VASCO    NUNEZ.  319 

Some  they  precipitate  from  their  high  spheres, 
Leaping  into  their  places  ;  the  dethroned,  ' 
Extinguish'd  in  the  deeps  of  all  their  light, 
Find  there  a  dwelling-place,  to  their  new  life 
More  apt  and  fitting.     Such  powers  have  these 
O'er  men  and  stars,  as  these  do  err  and  shoot, 
Out  from  their  proper  places.     Over  thee 
Yon  planet  hangs  its  spell,  and  thou  art  mark'd 
Its  victim,  surely — all  thy  triumph  naught — 
Thy  spoils  for  other  spoilers,  and  thy  deeds 
Naught  valued,  nothing  doing  for  thy  life, 
But  all  against  thee.     Jesu  be  thy  shield  !" 

Brief  was  the  respite ; — a  short  season  pass'd, 
The  omen  was  complete  ; — the  augury 
Had  its  fulfilment !     He  who,  at  that  hour, 
Beheld  himself — by  all  the  world  beheld — 
Successful — born  for  conquest  and  renown, — 
Died  on  the  block  ;  the  moral  rounded  well 
To  closing  of  a  mighty  history, 
Such  as  too  commonly  sculptures  mortal  glory, 
Where  Shame  sits  watchful  how  to  mock  the  triumph, 
And  Hate  despoils  the  conqueror  !     In  the  grasp, 
The  full  possession  of  his  matchless  heights, 
The  power  pass'd  from  him  to  his  enemy's  hands ; 
And  he  who  built  the  altar,  was  the  first 
To  shed  his  blood  on  it  in  sacrifice, 
Yet  hopeless  of  atonement.     The  base  spirit 
Triumph'd  above  the  noble  ;  as  the  viper 
Crawls  to  the  bosom  of  the  sleeping  lion. 
And  stings  him  where  lie  lies.     Thus  overcome, 
Among  his  foes  at  Acla,  Balboa  died, 
A  hero's  glory  and  a  felon's  doom 
Closing  a  perilous  life  of  many  toils 


320  VASCO    NUNEZ. 

And  true  adventure.     The  magician's  speech 

Was  sooth — and  he,  whom  worlds  could  not  contain, 

So  vast  his  spirit— whose  far -darting  soul 

Saw,  from  its  skyey  pinnacle,  the  new 

And  boundless  shores  he  conquered — he,  the  brave — 

The  noblest  in  renown,  where  all  were  brave — 

PerishM,  unheard,  unheeded — not  an  eye 

To  weep  his  fortunes  ;  not  a  single  arm 

To  do  his  nature  justice,  and  redress 

The  wrongs  of  men  and  nations.     Thus  he  died — 

The  world  he  conquer' d  yielding  him — a  grave. 


THE   SIOUX   BOY; 

AN    INDIAN    LEGEND. 


DEEP  hidden  in  the  forest  wild, 

Where  yet  the  savage  wander'd  free, 

A  manly  Sioux  Boy  beguiled 
The  hours  beneath  a  tree  ; 

And  gayly,  in  his  native  tongue, 

Mix'd  lay  of  love  and  war  he  sung. 

Yet,  to  himself,  for  none  were  near, 
Nor  chief,  nor  maid,  to  list  the  strain, 

And,  save  mine  own,  no  other  ear 
Might  know  his  pride  or  pain. 

Yet,  subject  to  his  secret  thought, 

This  ditty  for  himself  he  wrought. 

"  0  !  soon  upon  the  Pawnee's  trail, 
Sweet  Manne,  will  thy  Ontwa  go  ; 

And  I  shall  hear  his  woman  wail, 
And  meetly  use  the  bended  bow, 

And  hurl  the  spear,  and  bare  the  knife, 

And  win,  or  lose,  the  forfeit  life. 

"  I  glad  me  that  the  time  is  come 
To  win  among  the  tribe  a  name, 

And,  in  thy  tent,  no  longer  dumb, 
To  tell  thee  of  my  flame  ; 

How  much  I'll  love, — how  bravely  do, 

To  teach  thee  how  to  love  me  too. 
14* 


322  THE    SIOUX    BOY. 

"  I'll  make  thy  home  of  sheltering  reeds, 
And  store  it  with  each  forest  prize  ; 

For  thee,  the  red  deer  bounds  and  bleeds  ; 
For  thee,  the  spotted  panther  dies  ; 

Soft  furs  shall  frame  thy  couch  by  night, 

And  gentlest  steeds  shall  bear  thy  flight. 

"  Oh,'mongst  our  people  thou  shalt  be 
Made  glorious  by  thy  Ontw^'s  love ; 
I'll  triumph  in  the  fight  for  thee, 

And  win  the  spoils  of  field  and  grove ; 
And  when  they  see  how  brave  my  hand, 
They'll  make  me  leader  of  the  band. 

"  There  shall  be  songs  in  other  days, 

Of  what  thy  Ontwa's  strength  hath  done, 

And  chiefs  to  come  shall  speak  with  praise, 
Of  scalp-locks  from  the  Pawnee  won ; 

And  they  shall  tell  of  thee,  as  blest, 

The  young  fawn  at  the  warrior's  breast. 

"  'Neath  summer  sky,  o'er  sunny  plain, 
Together,  fearless,  shall  we  speed : 

I'll  house  thee  from  the  winter  rain, 
In  spring  to  pleasant  pastures  lead  ; 

And  thou  shalt  see  me,  with  the  bow, 

Pursue,  and  slay  the  buffalo, 

"  And  bring  thee  from  the  morning  chase, 
Unhurt,  the  meek  and  spotty  fawn ; 

And  proudly  at  thy  feet  I'll  place, 
The  skin  from  panther  drawn  ; 

Torn  from  him  with  a  warrior's  art, 

While  yet  the  life  is  at  his  heart. 


THE    SIOUX   BOY,  323 

"And  thou  shalt  sliape  the  moccasin, 

And  well  repay  thy  warriors  deeds, 
When  thou  shalt  work  the  red  deer's  skin, 

Gay  with  thy  many  color'd  beads, 
Meet  for  a  chief,  when  at  our  home 
An  hundred  braves  his  guests  become." 

Thus  mused  the  boy  beneath  his  tree, 
'Of  love's  delights,  and  warrior's  pride, 

A  long  and  gladsome  reverie, 

Where  he  the  chief,  and  she  the  bride, 

Swept  through  the  sylvan  future  still, 

A  realm  of  love,  and  free  from  ill. 

With  very  joy  at  last  he  slept, — 

He  dream'd  of  bliss,  and  had  no  fear 
That  nigh  the  hateful  Pawnee  crept, 

Like  serpent,  close  beside  his  ear ; 
He  wakens  only  into  life 
To  feel  within  his  heart  the  knife  ! 

One  moment's  consciousness  he  knew, 

Before  the  fatal  blow  was  sped ; 
The  red  blade  flashes  on  his  view, 

He  feels  it  circling  round  his  head ; 
And  dies  ; — his  fancy  not  more  sooth 
Than  that  which  cheats  the  white  man's  youth. 


THE  SYREN  OF  TSELICA; 

A  TEADITION  OF  THE  F BENCH  BEOAD. 


THE  tradition  of  the  Cherokees  asserts  the  existence  of  a  Syren,  in  the  French  Broad,  who 
implores  the  Hunter  to  the  stream,  and  strangles  him  in  her  embrace,  or  so  infects  him  with 
some  mortal  disease,  that  he  invariably  perishes.  The  story,  stripped  of  all  poetry,  would 
seem  to  be  that  of  a  youth,  who,  overcome  with  fatigue  and  heat  together,  sought  the  cool 
•waters  of  the  river,  and  was  seized  with  cramp  or  spasms;  or,  too  much  exhausted  for  re- 
action, sunk  under  the  shock.  It  does  not  much  concern  us,  however,  what  degree  of  faith 
is  due  to  the  tradition.  Enough  that  such  exists,  and  that  its  locality  is  one  of  the  most 
magnificent  regions,  for  its  scenery,  in  the  known  world.  Tselica  is  the  Indian  name  of  tho 
river. 


in  summer  prime,  the  noontide  hour, 
Sleep  lay  heavy  o'er  the  sunny  vale ; 
Droop'd  the  sad  leaves  'neath  the  fiery  vapor, 
Droop'd  and  panted  for  the  evening  gale. 

Gloomy,  lonely,  and  \vith  travail  weary, 

Down  the  mountain  slopes  the  stranger  came  ; 

Droop'd  his  eyes,  and  in  his  fainting  bosom 
Lay  the  pulsing  blood,  a  lake  of  flame. 

Oh,  how  cool  in  sight  the  rushing  river, 
With  its  thousand  barrier-rocks  at  strife, 

All  its  billows  tossing  high  their  foam  wreaths, 
As  if  maddening  with  the  impatient  life. 

Wild,  with  ceaseless  shout  they  hurried  onward, 
Laughing  ever  with  their  cheerful  glee, 

O'er  the  antique  rocks  their  great  limbs  flinging, 
With  a  frantic  joy  was  strange  to  see. 


THE    SrKEJ*    OF    TSELICA.  325 

They,  of  all,  possess'd  the  life  and  action, 

Silence  else  had  sovereign  sway  alone, 
All  the  woods  were  hush'd,  and  the  gray  mountain 

Look'd  with  stony  eyes  from  crumbling  throne. 

Sad  the  youth  sank  down  in  the  great  shadows, 

Close  beside  the  waters  as  they  ran, 
Very  hopeless  was  he  of  his  travail, 

Very  weary  since  it  first  began. 

Friends  and  fortune  he  had  none  to  cheer  him, 

And  the  growing  sorrow  at  his  heart 
Wrought  the  bitter  thought  to  bitter  feeling, 

And  he  yearn'd  to  perish  and  depart. 

"  Why,"  he  murmurs,  "  still  in  toil  unresting, 

Should  I  strive  for  aye  in  fruitless  strife  ; 
Where  the  hopes  and  loves  that  used  to  glad  me, 

When  I  first  began  the  race  of  life  ? 

"  Where's  the  pride  of  triumph  that  was  promised, 
That  should  crown  me  with  the  immortal  wreath  ; 

Where  the  fond  heart  that  in  youth  embraced  me — 
Gone,  forever  gone — and  where  is  Death  ? 

"  Give  me  peace,  ye  skies  and  rocks  :   ye  waters, 
Peace  yourselves  ye  know  not,  but  your  flow 

Tells  of  calm  and  rest  beneath  your  billows — 
Coolness,  for  the  fiery  griefs  I  know." 

Thus,  with  languid  soul  beside  the  river, 

Gazed  he  sadly  as  that  hour  he  lay  ; 
Gloomy  with  the  past,  and  of  the  future 

Hopeless, — hence  his  guilty  prayer  that  day. 


326  THE     SYREN    OF    TSELICA. 

Brooding  thus,  and  weary,  a  song  rises, 
From  the  very  billows,  soft  and  clear ; 

Such  as  evening  bird,  with  parting  ditty, 
Pours  at  twilight  to  the  floweret's  ear. 

Wild  and  sweet,  and  passionate  and  tender  ; 

Now  full,  now  faint ;  with  such  a  touching  art, 
His  soul  dissolves  in  weakness,  and  his  spirit 

Goes  with  the  throbbing  sweetness  at  his  heart. 

He  looks  with  strain'd  eyes  at  the  lapsing  waters, 
And  gleaming  bright  beneath  the  billows,  lo  ! 

Flashes  white  arms,  and  glides  a  lovely  damsel, 
Bright  eyes,  dark  locks,  and  bosom  white  as  snow. 

He  sees,  but  still  in  moment  glimpses  only, 

Gleams  of  strange  beauty,  from  an  eye  all  bright, — 

As  when  some  single  star,  at  midnight,  flashes 
From  the  cold  cloud,  above  the  mountain's  height. 

As  raven  black  as  night  float  free  her  tresses, 
Outflung  above  the  waves  by  snowy  arms, 

Now  o'er  her  bosom  spread,  and  half  betraying, 
While  half  concealing  still  her  sunny  charms. 

And  then  again  ascends  her  song  of  pleading — 
"  Ah,  but  thou  failest  with  the  noonday  heat, 

Thy  brow  is  pale  with  care,  thine  eyelids  drooping, 
Thy  soul  is  sad,  and  weary-worn  thy  feet. 

"  Oh  !  come  to  me,  and  taste  my  waves  of  cooling ; 

I  '11  soothe  thy  sorrows  ;  I  will  bring  thee  rest ; 
Thy  fainting  limbs  grow  strong  in  my  embraces, 

Thy  burning  cheek  find  pillow  on  my  breast. 


THE    SYKEN    OF    TSELICA.  327 

"  Oh  !  come  to  me !"  was  still  the  loving  burden, 
With  charm  of  such  a  sweetness  in  its  swell, 

That  every  fancy  in  his  bosom  kindled, 
And  every  feeling  woke  to  work  the  spell. 

Wild  was  the  dreamy  passion  that  possess'd  him  ; 

Won  by  the  syren  song,  and  glimpsing  charms, 
He  leapt  to  join  her  in  the  wave,  but  shudder'd 

At  the  first  foldings  of  her  death-cold  arms. 

Fiercely  against  her  own  she  press'd  his  bosom  ;- 
'Tis  the  ice-mountain  whose  embrace  he  feels  ; 

Within  his  eyes  she  shot  her  dazzling  glances  : 
'Tis  Death's  own  stony  stare  the  look  reveals. 

He  breaks  away,  the  shore  in  horror  seeking ; 

But  all  too  late, — the  doom  is  in  his  heart : 
He  sinks  beside  the  fatal  stream,  and  dying, 

Deplores  the  prayer  that  pleaded  to  depart. 

His  dying  sense  still  hears  the  fatal  Syren ; 

She  sings  her  triumph  now,  her  love  no  more  : 
A  fearful  hate  was  in  the  eldritch  music, 

And  terror  now,  where  beauty  sway'd  before. 

• 

No  more  the  pleasing  wile,  the  plaintive  ditty : 
He  strives  in  vain  the  wizard  strain  to  flee ; 

"  Death,"  ran  the  song, — no  more  of  peace  and  pity, 
"  To  him  who  madly  seeks  embrace  with  me  !" 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   SILENT* 


WHEN,  in  the  twilight  hour  and  pensive  mood, 
Thought  seeks  repose,  and  Passion  sleeps  subdued, 
Why  doth  the  eye  with  mournful  fondness  rest, 
On  the  dark  shadows  gathering  in  the  west  ? 
Why  doth  the  soul  delight  to  follow  fast, 
O'er  that  dim  realm  from  which  the  sun  hath  pass'd  ? 
No  more  his  smiles  persuade  the  upward  eye, 
No  more  his  glories  gladden  in  the  sky ; 
The  rainbow  tints,  the  children  of  his  beams, 
Dear  to  our  sight  as  music  to  our  dreams, 
That  hung  around,  pavilioning  his  throne 
With  hues  and  gleams  more  lovely  than  his  own, — 
That  closed  his  eyes,  that  caught  they*  dying  sign, 
And  soothed,  with  office  sweet,  his  sad  decline, — 
Themselves,  in  shadowy  folds  of  cloud  and  dun, 
Depart,  like  mourners,  following  still  the  sun  ; 
Forego  the  glorious  empire  which,  awhile, 
Glow'd  in  the  sweetness  of  his  dying  smile, 
And  all  their  happy  heritage  of  light 
Yield  to  dusk  eve  and  pall-enshrouding  night. 

*  Delivered  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Grounds  of  Magnolia  Cemetery,  near 
the  city  of  Charleston,  on  the  19th  day  of  November,  1860. 


THE    CITY    OF    THE    SILENT.  329 

Yet,  still  we  gaze, — and,  through  the  gloomy  waste, 
Pore,  with  fond  search,  for  all  the  realm  they  graced ; 
Our  living  cares  and  purposes  forgot, 
Our  wealth  unvalued,  or  remember'd  not, 
Why  do  we  thus,  with  eager  vision  strain, 
And  strive  with  thoughts  themselves  that  strive  in  vain  ? 
Why  grasp  at  each  bright  mirage  that  no  more 
Can  cheer  the  fancy  which  it  charm'd  before  ? 

Tis  that  an  image  from  the  heart  is  cast, 
That  shows  how  rich  our  empire  in  the  past ! 
There,  twins  of  rapture,  Hope  and  Memory  strive 
Our  skies  to  brighten,  and  our  joys  revive ; 
These,  when  the  clouds  about  our  vision  roll, 
Bestow  the  beauteous  prospect  on  the  soul, — 
There  still  we  grasp  the  beings  loved  and  lost, 
There  shield  our  flowers,  uninjured,  from  the  frost, — 
There  shrine  each  feature  in  whose  smile  we  felt 
The  fancies  kindle,  and  the  feelings  melt, 
The  hope  grow  warm,  the  impulsive  passion  rise 
That  caught  its  sunlight  from  the  loved-one's  eyes, — 
And  still,  in  dreamy  consciousness  of  bliss, 
Feel  Love's  last  hour  of  rapture  sweetening  this. 
Thus  link  we  still,  with  shadows  that  depart, 
Dear  aspects  always  shining  in  the  heart, 
Soothe  the  keen  sorrow  which  their  loss  deplores, 
By  fondest  search  through  memory's  haunted  stores, — 
By  dreams,  that  freshen  to  the  soul,  by  night, 
What  day  and  care  would  ever  take  from  sight. 
These  paint  them,  sweet  and  smiling  as  of  yore, 
And  all  the  virtues  teach  they  taught  before ; 
Their  forms  unseen,  with  memory's  help  we  trace, 
Still  fresh,  the  beauties  of  each  well-known  face, 
The  genial  blessings  which  their  presence  brought, 


330  THE    CITY     OF    THE    SILENT. 

And  all  the  dear  delights  they  yielded  thought ; — 

Tims  do  they  soothe  the  pangs  their  parting  gave, 

And,  through  their  memories,  gladden  from  the  grave, 

Even  as  the  flowers  their  odors  still  unfold, 

Where  long  before  they  perish'd,  through  the  mould  ; — 

Thus  still  they  bloom  around  the  silent  hearth, 

Thus  make  a  sacred  altar-place  of  earth, 

Thus  help  us  shrine  the  dear  ones  pass'd  from  day, 

And  catch  their  smiles  long  after  their  decay. 

The  thoughtful  wanderer  thus,  while  musing  lone, 
O'er  realms  whose  ruins  speak  for  empires  gone, 
With  reverent  search  the  temple  still  explores, 
Copan  re-peoples,  and  Palenque  restores  ; 
Bends,  in  mute  homage,  at  each  mouldering  shrine, 
And  broods  o'er  altars  once  believed  divine  ! — 
No  sun-shaft  kindles  now  the  sacred  height, 
Where  spake  the  Prophet  once  in  words  of  might ; 
No  holy  chant  ascends  from  virgin  choirs, 
From  golden  censer,  now,  no  cloud  aspires ; 
The  song  is  hush'd — the  prayer  is  dumb, — and  still 
That  heart  whose  humbler  faith  survived  its  will ; 
No  passion  strives,  no  virtue  lifts  its  eye, 
And  all  is  fled  that  might  have  told  us  why  ! 
Silence,  alone,  with  finger  on  cold  lips, 
But  shows  the  nation  through  its  drear  eclipse, — 
Eclipse  that  smote,  with  power  decreed  to  crush, 
Pride's  mighty  heart,  and  all  its  voices  hush  ! 
Vainly  the  Pilgrim,  from  the  Past  implores 
The  curious  legend  of  these  speechless  shores, 
What  races  fill'd  their  cities, — what  the  Fate, 
That  found  them  weak,  and  left  them  desolate  ? — 
What  deeds  were  theirs — what  mighty  works  they  wrought  ? 
What  Faith  they  cherish'd  ?— what  their  toils  of  Thought  ? 


THE    CITY    OF    THE    SILENT.  331 

From  the  bleak  ruin  comes  no  answering  tone : 
Realms  of  the  silent !  still  they  sleep  unknown  ! 

Yet,  not  the  less,  with  reverent  awe  we  glide 
Through  each  dark  portal,  once  of  power  and  pride ; 
A  human  sense  and  sympathy,  with  spell 
Of  thought  and  worship  still,  the  soul  compel : 
With  what  a  speech  these  crumbling  piles  declare, 
How  stern  the  rule, — the  realm  how  rich  and  fair  ! — 
What  various  fortunes  sped  their  march  of  state, — 
How  Wealth  grew  prodigal  and  Genius  great ; 
What  ages  pass'd,  of  virtues  crown'd  with  sway, 
How  slow  their  steps  from  conquest  to  decay ; 
How  subtly  stole  the  conqueror  on  their  sleep — 
Their  dream  how  soothing,  and  their  doom  how  deep ! 
Here  man  hath  been  Heaven's  minister — and  foe  ! 
Hath  felt,  like  us,  the  tides  of  joy  and  woe ; 
Hath,  like  our  living  races,  known  his  hour 
Of  hope  and  triumph,  and  strode  on  to  power ; 
In  fond  fruition  of  each  earthly  bliss, 
Hath  found  his  sole  sufficient  world  in  this ; 
Scorn'd  the  sage  counsels  of  the  reverend  sire 
That  taught  the  moderate  aim  and  meet  desire, 
Defied  the  seer  who  show'd  the  scourge  and  yoke, 
Nor  fear'd  the  danger,  till  he  felt  the  stroke ; 
In  pride  of  place  hath  mock'd  the  blessings  given, 
And  lost  Earth's  gifts,  despising  those  of  Heaven  ! 

In  these  memorials,  silent  though  they  stand, 
We  read  the  dangers  of  each  living  land ; 
They  teach  the  moral  to  our  shrinking  hearts, 
That,  with  our  virtue's  loss,  our  strength  departs ; 
That  the  proud  empire,  wallowing  still  in  crime, 
Must  lose,  at  last,  the  power  to  cope  with  Time ; 


332  THE    CITY    OF    THE    SILENT. 

Must  drink  the  dregs  of  bitterness  and  blight, 
And  veil  its  glories  all  in  gloom  and  night ! 

'Tis  even  for  this,  with  reverent  sense  we  tread 
These  silent  dwellings  of  the  unknown  dead  ; 
'Tis  that  the  echo  from  their  lonely  towers, 
Speaks  for  the  fate  that  yet  may  fall  on  ours  ; 
Recalls  such  histories  as  we  feel  our  own, 
And  shows  the  skeleton  behind  the  throne  ! — 
Their  homes  are  ruins,  but  they  once  were  bright, 
With  living  beauty  bursting  on  the  sight' ; 
Here,  in  the  dance,  while  music  gush'd  in  air, 
Swam  the  gay  groups  insensible  to  care  ; 
These  groves,  now  silent,  heard  each  whispering  voice, 
Whose  low  fond  accents  bade  some  heart  rejoice  ; 
And  song,  that  seem'd  to  bring  the  heaven  it  soug-ht, 
Was  here  to  soothe  the  wearied  brain  of  Thought ! 
The  purple  trophies  of  their  golden  state, 
'Tis  ours,  in  fancy,  thus  to  re-create ; 
Evoke  their  hero-aspects,  chiefs  of  fame, 
And  point  old  morals  with  each  new-born  name ; 
Their  Bards  arouse, — their  Sages, — as  they  speak, 
With  voices  wise  and  powerful,  like  the  Greek, 
And  strain  all  senses,  gazing  into  night, 
Still,  for  the  glorious  phantoms  gone  from  sight ! 

Yes !  here  they  toil'd — here  triumph'd — here  they  won 
A  glorious  height  of  empire  like  the  sun, 
Here  set,  like  him,  in  clouds — perchance,  to  rise, 
With  him,  triumphant  still,  in  other  skies ! 
Even  through  the  shroud  about  their  empire  cast, 
We  catch  faint  glimpses  of  their  wondrous  past ; 
The  spirit  of  ancient  days,  if  good  or  great, 
Gilds  even  the  ruins  of  its  former  state ; 


THE    CITY    OF    THE    SILENT.  333 

With  pleasing  sadness  we  explore  each  shrine 

Our  kindred  races  once  esteem'd  divine ; 

The  horizon  dark,  still  keeps  some  sacred  gleams 

That  all  our  living  instinct  crowds  with  dreams, — 

Dreams  that  to  human  consciousness  appeal, 

And  teach  those  truths  Time  never  can  reveal ! 

Here,  living,  breathing,  burning  souls,  in  strife 

That  led  to  mightiest  conquests,  sprang  to  life, 

With  fierce  ambition  pluck'd  the  crown  of  Fame, 

And  left  a  monument,  without  a  name ! — 

Their  altars  sacred,  though  obscure  their  faith, 

Their  labors  living,  though  themselves  in  death, 

We  bend  in  awe  beneath  each  mournful  shade, 

And  yield  our  worship  where  the  God  hath  sway'd. 

We  know  their  might,  their  faith,  the  soul,  the  will, 

In  the  great  shrines  their  Fate  hath  left  us  still. 

These  were  their  temples, — noble,  vast,  and  high, — 

They  honor'd  thus  no  lowly  Deity ! 

For  sure,  the  ambition  which  can  nobly  raise, 

Must  crave  a  sovereign  worthy  all  its  praise, 

And  each  conception  greatly  born  of  Thought, 

Finds  still  a  kindred  God  for  him  who  wrought. 

The  grand  achievement  thus  declares  a  flight, 

That  seeks  its  ideal  on  the  loftiest  height, 

And  where,  of  worship,  it  avows  the  need, 

Demands  a  God  superior  to  its  deed. 

Thus  the  Egyptian  Magian,  working  well 

To  make  his  temples  grand  and  durable, 

With  sleepless  aim  and  subtle  hope  aspires 

To  a  far  future  worthy  such  desires, 

And  taught  his  soul,  with  eager  sense,  to  lift 

The  wing  and  eye  to  her  immortal  gift ! 

So  the  Athenian,  exquisite  in  taste, 

In  wisdom  strong,  in  great  conception  chaste, 


334:  THE    CITY     OF    THE    SILENT. 

Still  felt  that  earth,  was  not  alone  the  sphere 

To  his  soul's  want  compatible  and  dear. 

Each  virtue  found  its  God,  each  fancy  grace, 

Each  Deity  his  fitting  shrine  and  place  : 

But  one  was  wanting  yet,  superior  still 

To  all  that  soothed  his  sense,  or  sway'd  his  will ; 

His  mind,  unsatisfied  by  all  below, 

He  raised  one  shrine  to  HIM  he  did  not  know  ;* 

Taught  by  etherial  Plato  still  to  crave, 

That  hope,  o'er  all,  which  soars  but  from  the  grave. 

The  vast  but  ruin'd  piles  of  these  unknown, 
Demand  meet  temples  for  the  state  and  throne  ; 
And  not  in  vain  our  search — around  us  start 
The  halls  of  learning,  and  the  homes  of  art. 
This  was  the  Senate  House — the  Forum  there, 
Where  plebeian  thousands  came  to  feel  and  hear ; 
And  still,  on  fancy's  ear,  the  living  swell 
Of  eloquence,  omnipotent  to  spell, 
Shakes  with  electric  fires  that  thrill  and  dart, 
With  seraph-mission,  through  the  nation's  heart.  * 
With  patriot  prescience  it  declares  the  fate — 
That  last,  perchance,  which  left  them  desolate  ! — 
Still  summoning  up,  the  State  to  save  at  last, 
All  that  was  glorious  in  the  grateful  Past ! — 
Their  prophets  well  foresaw  the  approaching  storm, 
And  bade  their  revels  cease,  their  warriors  arm  ; 
Show'd  the  dark  speck,  no  larger  than  a  hand, 
Destined  to  shroud  in  blackness  all  the  land, 
Yet  show'd  in  vain ; — Cassandra-like,  decreed 
To  speak  the  truth,  with  none  the  truth  to  heed  : 
They  danced,  they  slept — untimely  slept — and  woke 

Acts  xvii.  23  :  "  To  the  unknown  God." 


THE    CITY    OF    THE    SILENT.  335 

To  feel  the  ruin,  and  to  wear  the  yoke, 

To  fly  their  homes,  to  crouch  in  them  as  slaves, 

Or  find — last  hope  of  freemen — freemen's  graves  ! 

The  truth  that  teaches  nothing  of  the  race, 
Which,  in  its  ruins,  shows  how  proud  its  place, — 
That  writes  no  record  on  its  mighty  towers, 
At  least  assures  us  of  a  life  like  ours  : — 
Shows  us  the  very  yearnings  that  we  know, 
Still  to  achieve,  and  leave  a  name  below : 
A  fond  ambition,  struggling  'gainst  decay, 
To  wrench  from  Time  the  sceptre  of  his  sway, 
Still  to  assert,  though  we  no  more  may  see, 
O'er  future  souls,  the  soul's  proud  sovereignty, 
To  challenge  worship,  though  our  sun  be  set, 
And  win  that  homage  that  pursues  us  yet ! 

Thus  build  we  shrines  of  marble — towers,  whose  height 
Declare  our  pride  of  aim  and  people's  might, 
Rear  temples,  columns,  and  inscribe  on  each, 
Names  that  shall  yet  lend  eloquence  to  speech, 
And  life  to  language, — with  a  voice  sublime, 
Pealing,  through  wrecks  of  years,  o'er  tracts  of  Time  ! 
All  nations  feel  this  yearning — thus  they  raise 
The  tower  and  tomb  for  future  love  and  praise, 
Heedful  of  memories  that  shall  fondly  keep 
A  filial  watch  o'er  their  ancestral  sleep, 
Recall  each  virtue  precious  as  their  own, 
And  make  with  pride  the  sire's  great  actions  known. 

That  fond  solicitude  that  makes  them  strive 
Their  names  and  triumphs  thus  to  keep  alive, 
Moves  still  a  care  more  sacred,  at  the  close, 
Which  shrines  their  ashes  in  supreme  repose. 


336  THE     CITY     OF     THE     SILENT. 

The  frail,  decaying  form  which  once  enshrined 
The  immortal  spirit,  the  imperial  mind, 
Thus,  by  its  trust,  made  sacred,  too,  we  store 
As  the  dear  casket  which  the  jewel  bore  : — 
Not  worthless  now,  because  no  more  we  hear 
Its  voice  of  soul  and  sweetness  on  the  ear ; 
Not  honor'd  less,  because  no  more  our  sight 
Glows  in  the  beauty  of  its  kindred  light ; — 
But  cherish'd  still,  and  treasured  to  the  last, 
For  its  dear  memories  in  the  haunted  past. 

With  eyes  that  weep  to  see,  yet  weep  to  lose, 
We  yield  the  loved  one  to  his  long  repose  ; 
With  reverent  hands  the  kindred  dust  we  bear, 
To  sacred  shadows  of  the  wood  repair, 
Far  from  the  crowded  mart,  the  world  whose  strife 
Still  mocks  at  death,  and  seldom  honors  life, 
There  Jay  we  down  the  form  that  cannot  know 
How  fond  our  homage,  and  how  great  our  woe. 
With  tender  love, — with  tearful  eyes, — we  trace 
For  his  last  dwelling  some  selected  place, 
Some  shady  copse,  or  isle — some  spot  of  green, 
By  oak  and  elm  secure  with  leafy  screen ; 
Where  the  Magnolia  towers — where  tribute  vines 
Steal  up  to  clamber  o'er  supporting  pines ; — 
Some  spot  most  precious  to  the  musing  hour 
Of  him  whose  relics  cold  we  thus  embower  ; — 
Some  sunny  bank,  whence,  gazing  on  the  west, 
His  living  eye  with  all  the  landscape  blest, 
It  was  his  wont,  from  friendship  still  to  crave, 
The  spot  he  couch'd  on  might  be  made  his  grave  ; — 
A  spot  to  heart  subdued,  and  cheer'd  by  faith, 
To  make  the  spirit  half  "  in  love  with  death," — 
Peace  in  the  prospect,  peace  upon  the  sea, 


T  HE     01  T  Y     0  F     i  HE     S  I  L  E  N  T.  337 

And  sunny  smiles  about  each  guardian  tree, 

No  voice  of  man  to  vex  the  solitude, 

But  breezes  softly  whispering  through  the  wood. 

The  filial  love  that  honors  thus  the  dead, 
And  shrines  the  form  from  which  the  soul  hath  fled, 
Wide  as  the  world,  and  various  as  the  race, 
Howe'er  remote  the  time,  or  far  the  place, 
Alike  in  all,  acknowledges  the  same, 
How  dear  to  love  the  loved-one's  precious  frame ; — 
How  dear  to  pride  the  ashes  once  so  bright, 
With  all  that  hope  could  warm,  or  joy  delight. — 
To  natural  instincts  true,  the  heart  requires 
Meet  shrines  and  emblems  for  departed  sires  ; 
Feels  well  the  alliance  'twixt  the  soul  and  clay, 
That  makes  us  shrink  to  see  the  last  decay, — 
Moves  us  to  cherish  the  delusive  thought, 
That,  with  the  one,  the  other  still  is  fraught — 
That,  of  the  living  spirit,  lately  ours, 
With  sense  so  keen,  and  will  of  wondrous  powers, 
So  quick  to  feel  and  glow,  so  prompt  to  hear 
Love's  wooing  accent,  and  bewitching  prayer, — 
All  is  not  lost,  and  we  shall  yet  behold 
The  form  arise,  the  eye  grow  bright  and  bold, 
The  soul  return  and  fold  its  wandering  wing, 
And  the  cold  arms  embrace  us  while  we  cling. 

Even  with  such  dream,  so  vague  but  precious  still, 
The  ancients  honor'd  death  with  pomp  and  skill, 
Forgot  no  rite  to  pride  or  worship  dear, 
And  spread  meet  flowers  and  emblems  on  the  bier ; 
Bade  music  sound,  with  dirge-becoming  woe, 
And  lighten'd  Death's  sad  brow  with  state  and  show ; 
The  grave  became  a  temple,  grand  in  gloom, 

VOL.  i.  16 


338  THE    CITY    OF    THE    SILENT. 

And  lamps  sepulchral  shone  within  the  tomb, 

Symbols  of  that  pure  element  of  light 

That  Earth  may  dim,  but  not  extinguish  quite  ! 

Back,  through  the  vista  of  five  thousand  years, 

How  simply  sad  each  varied  rite  appears  ; 

How  strangely  same,  yet  multiplied,  the  plan 

Which  shrined  and  honor'd  the  remains  of  man  ! 

The  Egyptian  rear'd  his  pyramid,  which  shows 

At  once  his  monarch's  pride,  and  people's  woes  ; 

With  precious  unguents  pluck'd  from  Time  his  prey, 

And  kept  the  loved-one's  features  from  decay  ; 

Through  plates  of  glass  the  unconscious  visage  show'd, 

And  framed,  in  mightiest  cells,  the  last  abode ; 

Circled  the  sleeper  with  the  pomps  of  art, 

Dear  to  his  fame,  or  grateful  to  his  heart : 

Thus,  o'er  the  gloomy  walls,  the  painter  spread 

The  storied  progress  of  the  conqueror-dead  ; 

Each  great  achievement  of  his  pride  or  might, 

His  towers  of  state,  his  triumphs  won  in  fight ; 

How,  with  keen  lust,  he  tore,  with  savage  hand, 

His  bloody  trophies  from  each  neighboring  land  ; 

What  myriads  march'd  to  swell  his  despot  train, 

What  nations  battled,  and  what  hosts  were  slain  ! 

Lofty  in  chariot,  arm'd  with  wrath,  Ave  see 

His  onward  stride  to  death  or  victory  ; 

Trace  him,  with  Fire  and  Famine  in  his  wake, 

Through  the  red  surges  which  his  battles  make ; 

Behold  the  tower  go  down,  the  city  flame, 

And  join  the  rabble  shout  that  calls  it  fame  ; 

For  one  wild  moment,  reckless  still  of  life, 

Share  in  the  wild  delirium  of  the  strife  ; 

The  rush  of  steeds,  the  wreck  of  spears,  the  dread 

Lock  of  the  victor-living  with  the  dead  ! 

So  well,  portraying  all  the  powers  of  ill, 


THE    CITY    OF    THE    SILENT.  339 

The  servile  painter  shows  the  courtier's  skill ; 
Enslaved  by  power,  and  scarcely  true  to  art, 
Heedless  of  all  that's  precious  to  the  heart, 
On  brows  of  Guilt,  the  laurel  crown  bestows, 
And  makes  us  glory  still  in  human  woes ; 
These,  following  fast  upon  his  march  appear, 
But  neither  wake  the  pang,  nor  force  the  tear ; 
Though,  in  procession  sad,  the  captive  crowd 
Leash'd  at  his  heels,  still  cry  their  griefs  aloud, 
We  yield  no  pity,  but  in  pride  elate, 
Turn,  where  the  conqueror  sits  and  sways  in  state. 

With  ruder  pomp,  in  more  barbaric  taste, 
His  burial  rites  the  Abyssinian  graced ; 
Like  the  Egyptian,  striving  'gainst  the  worm, 
With  costly  balms  preserved  the  mortal  form ; 
But  not  with  numerous  swathings  wrapt  the  dead, 
His  fancy  counsell'd  to  unveil  instead : 
Most  heedless,  in  his  vanity,  of  shame, 
Transparent  amber  clothed  the  naked  frame ; 
Thus,  to  all  eyes  reveal'd,  his  farther  rite, 
Raised  on  high  pillars,  placed  the  corse  in  sight ; 
Thus,  mocking  Life  with  Death,  and  Time  with  Fate, 
He  left  the  loved  one  in  his  hideous  state, 
The  sun  still  daily  shining,  but  in  vain, 
On  eyes  that  never  smile  on  sun  again ! 

In  better  taste,  with  tribute  more  refined, 
The  Etrurian  chief  his  sepulchre  design'd  ; 
That  wondrous  race,  of  whom  the  little  shown, 
Reveals  such  promise  in  the  vast  unknown  ; 
Kin  to  the  Egyptian,  father  to  the  Greek — 
If  true  the  legend  and  conjecture  speak — 
In  arts  and  arms  that  gloriously  achieved, 


34:0  THE     CITY     OF    THE    SILENT 

And  still  survive  the  worship  they  believed  ; 
That  left  to  Rome  their  gods,  without  their  faith, 
And  live  in  marble,  though  they  sleep  in  death  ; 
A  night  of  twenty  centuries,  like  a  spell, 
Oppressing  Genius  that  achieved  so  well, 
Denying  History,  curious  still  to  pierce 
The  purple  pall  that  hangs  about  her  hearse, 
And,  hush'd  on  every  theme  that  might  have  taught., 
Still  speaking  vaguely,  wondrously,  to  Thought ! 

How,  as  with  pick  and  axe,  exploring  deep 
In  vaults  that  shelter  well  their  ancient  sleep, 
We  break  through  caves  of  marble  that  reveal 
What  pride  hath  wrought,  and  Time  would  still  conceal — 
How  do  we  start,  as  on  our  vision  rise, 
Perfect  as  when  their  children  closed  their  eyes, 
Stately  in  helm  and  armor,  robes  and  gold, 
Their  Lucumones  as  they  sway'd  of  old  ! — 
Princes  and  chiefs,  whose  deeds  of  answering  fame 
Thrill'd  through  their  world,  yet  have  for  ours  no  name  ! 
The  weight  of  earth,  for  near  three  thousand  years, 
Press'd  on  the  marble  vault  that  hides  their  biers, 
Preserving  well  from  touch,  and  rude  decay, 
The  haughty  forms  of  manhood  and  of  sway. 

There  he  reclines,*  as  when  he  sought  the  strife, 
Clad  in  bright  armor,  looking  as  in  life, 
The  proud  Lucumo  ! — They  have  scarcely  gone, — 
'Twould  seem — who  laid  and  seal'd  him  up  in  stone ! 
What  awe  pervades  the  soul,  as  thus  we  gaze 
On  this  life-seeming  state  of  ancient  days  ! 
No  cunning  effigy,  the  work  of  art, 

*  See  the  "  Sepulchres  of  Etruria,"  by  Mrs.  Hamilton  Gray. 


THE     CITY    OF    THE     SILENT.  341 

Wrought  in  the  marble,  wanting  sense  and  heart, 
But  the  once  powerful  chieftain  as  he  shone, 
By  nations  honor'd,  and  to  thousands  known  ; — 
Himself,  at  length,  his  limbs  composed,  his  breast 
Expanding,  as  with  happiest  slumbers  bless'd. 
Even  as  we  gaze,  life  seems  to  stir  beneath, 
The  bosom  heaves  as  with  returning  breath  ; 
We  look  to  see  him  rise, — we  pause  to  hear 
His  trumpet  peal  of  battle  from  the  bier ! 
But  death  is  in  the  movement ; — 'tis  the  light 
That  heaves  the  frame,  and  stirs  him  to  the  sight ; 
Smote  by  the  insidious  air,  the  unwelcome  day, 
The  crumbling  corse  sinks  sudden  to  decay ; 
Time,  mock'd  so  long,  upon  his  subject  darts, 
The  clay  dissolves,  the  linked  armor  parts  ; — 
The  sceptre-grasping  hand,  the  helmed  brow, 
And  the  mail'd  breast  that  perfect  seem'd  but  now, 
Subside  to  dust,  and  mock  the  fond  surprise, 
That  hail'd  the  vision  late  with  awe-struck  eyes. 

We  glide  below  :  with  curious  search  we  gaze 
On  these  proud  mansions  of  ancestral  days  ; 
Here  wealth  and  care  have  vainly  striven  to  prove 
How  proud  their  homage,  and  how  fond  their  love ; 
What  toils  they  used,  what  precious  unguents  brought, 
With  what  sad  skill  the  funeral  garments  wrought ; 
What  sacrifice  of  gold  and  pomp  was  made, 
For  the  great  chief  whose  relics  here  they  laid  I 
Art  spared  no  service  !     On  the  walls  behold, 
How  fresh  the  colors  twenty  centuries  old  ; 
How  rich  the  painting — with  what  free  design, 
Warm  in  each  tint,  and  bold  in  every  line  ; 
A  wondrous  story,  which  reveals  a  faith 
That  sees  the  soul  escaped,  surviving  death  ; 


342  THE    CITY    OF    THE    SILENT. 

Shows  the  group'd  forms,  in  long  procession  led, 

Surrounding  fond,  or  following  slow,  the  dead. — 

There,  stately  still,  the  enfranchised  ghost  survey, 

Led,  by  the  rival  Genii,  into  day — 

The  day  that  lets  in  judgment  on  the  past, 

Bright  with  great  joys,  or  dread  with  clouds  o'ercast. 

There  the  good  Angel,  seeking  still  to  save, 

Receives  and  guides  the  freed  one  from  the  grave ; 

Beckons  with  smiling  hope  that  soothes  the  fear, 

And  shows  his  "  Esar  "*  merciful  and  near. 

Not  so  the  Evil  Genii,  who  withstand 

The  gentle  guidance  of  his  guardian  hand  ; 

They  bar  the  way  to  mercy,  and,  with  thirst 

Of  eager  malice,  hoping  still  the  worst, 

Declare,  of  evil  deeds,  the  dark  account, 

That  should  deny  the  ambitious  soul  to  mount. 

The  painter  leaves  in  doubt  the  fearful  strife, 

Whose  issue  broods  with  doom  or  glorious  life, 

But,  of  his  aim  and  hope  enough  are  shown, 

To  prove  his  promise  not  unlike  our  own, 

Show  that  his  faith  still  sought  an  upward  goal, 

And  challenged  wings  for  each  immortal  soul ! 

The  Greek  !    The  Roman  !     At  each  mighty  name, 
How  glow  the  great  stars  on  the  towers  of  Fame  ! 
What  triumphs  crown'd  their  arms,  their  arts  refined, 
And  lifted  theirs  o'er  all  the  works  of  mind  ; 
To  gods  raised  mortals — for  the  mortal  wrought 
A  refuge  sure  in  deathless  realms  of  thought — 
From  thought  evoked  philosophy,  and  wove 
Bright  laurels  for  the  academy  and  grove  ! 
That  they  should  perish,  should  succumb,  at  length, 

*  Esar  ; — the  Supreme  Being  of  the  ancient  Etrurians. 


THE     CITY    OF    THE    SILENT.-  343 

Spite  of  their  ardent  souls  and  matchless  strength, 
Perhaps  was  needful,  lest,  defying  Fate, 
They  should  forget  how  mortal  was  their  state, — 
Forget  their  subject  destiny,  and  prove 
Ungrateful  rebels  to  the  power  of  Jove  ! 

Their  arts,  their  subtle  tastes,  refined  and  proud, 
Still  mock'd  the  worm,  and  shudder'd  at  the  shroud : 
Still  strove  against  corruption,  and  decreed 
The  fire  their  flesh,  and  not  the  grave,  should  feed. 
Should  earth,  o'er  which,  in  matchless  might,  they  trod, 
Lords  of  the  world  that  trembled  at  their  nod — 
Should  earth,  the  lowly,  hide,  as  if  in  shame, 
The  imperial  aspect  and  majestic  frame  ? — 
Should  filial  homage  so  forget  the  sire, 
His  pride,  his  fame,  each  deed  and  each  desire, 
Nor  seek  to  cherish  still,  with  ceaseless  care, 
The  dust  of  one  so  precious,  proud  and  fair  ? — 
Preserve  each  vestige  of  the  great,  and  shrine 
In  during  gold  the  relics  deem'd  divine  ? 

They  dress  the  pyre  with  frankincense  and  spice, 
Woods  of  rich  perfume,  and  of  rare  device  ; 
Slay  the  white  oxen  on  the  pile,  and  spread 
With  fat  of  sheep  and  lambs,  the  honor'd  dead ; 
Gather  the  slaughter'd  victims  to  the  pile, 
With  flagons  crown'd  of  honey  and  of  oil ; 
Libations  red,  from  golden  bowls  they  pour, 
Then  from  their  brows  the  amber  tresses  shore  ; 
These  strew  the  dead.     The  corse  upon  the  pyre, — 
They  light  the  scented  torch,  and  feed  the  fire ; 
Watch  through  the  night  until  it  sinks  from  view, 
Then,  with  ambrosial  wines,  the  flames  subdue. 
This  duty  done,  with  reverent  hands  and  care 


344  '   THE    CITY    OF    THE    SILENT. 

They  take  the  sacred  ashes  from  the  bier  ; 
These,  in  a  golden  vase  inurn'd,  they  hide, 
By  household  love  and  worship  deified  ; — 
Nor  kept  in  vain,  since  destined  to  receive, 
In  time,  the  ashes  of  the  fond  who  grieve  ; 
All,  at  the  last,  each  honorM  one  in  turn, 
May  hope  to  mingle  in  the  self-same  urn, 
In  death  unite  the  hearts,  which,  true  in  life, 
Kept  faith,  unbroken  still,  by  storm  or  strife ! 

These  rites,  barbarian  still,  with  all  their  state, 
Were  but  false  tributes  to  the  good  and  great. 
Better  our  Christian  rule,  whose  simple  trust 
Confides  the  dust,  with  tears,  to  kindred  dust ; 
Holds  in  meet  reverence  still,  the  sacred  clay, 
The  soul's  fair  mansion  in  its  mortal  day ; 
But  builds  its  home  from  human  homes  apart, 
Nor  mocks  corruption  with  the  toys  of  art ; 
To  the  fresh  earth,  with  meek  and  holy  rite, 
Conveys  the  shrouded  clay  from  common  light ; 
Midst  sacred  gloom  of  trees,  midst  shadows  meet, 
That  mingle  well  the  solemn  with  the  sweet ; 
Where  banks  of  thyme  and  daisy  scent  the  ground, 
While  waters  murmur  nigh  with  slumberous  sound ; 
Where  the  light  hangs  with  mild  autumnal  ray, 
And  makes  a  sabbath  of  the  livelong  clay ; 
As  sacred  here,  by  Etiwando's  wave,* 
As  Mamre's  plain,  or  old  Machpelah's  cave. 

Even  as  we  watch,  with  sad  and  wistful  eye, 
Where  each  gay  phantom  leaves  the  twilight  sky, — 
Through  glooms  material  seeking  still  to  trace 

*  Etrwando,  the  Indian  name  of  Ashley  River. 


THE    CITY    OF    THE    SILENT.  345 

Each  sweet  expression,  and  beguiling  grace ; 

From  "  cold  obstruction"  striving  still  to  wrest 

The  features  once  so  precious  to  the  breast ; 

So,  through  the  shadowy  doubt  of  mortal  gloom, 

Through  the  grave's  shroud,  and  through  the  marble  tomb, 

We  trace  the  immortal  spirit  in  its  flight, 

And  hail  its  shining  progress  through  the  night ; 

Glow  with  new  life,  as  on  each  rising  wing, 

We  mark  the  colors  of  eternal  spring, 

And,  for  ourselves,  find  better  strength  to  rise, 

As  thus  we  trace  its  passage  through  the  skies  ! 

Even  as  we  muse,  with  homage  that  is  prayer, 
O'er  each  gray  ruin  once  a  temple  fair, 
And  read  the  tale  of  empires  through  the  shroud 
That  wraps  the  Genius  once  so  strong  and  proud — 
Grope  through  their  vaults,  explore  with  awe  the  rite 
That  makes  their  dead  still  sacred  in  our  sight ; — 
The  past  grows  subject  to  our  present  need, 
And  all  the  future  blossoms  as  we  read  ! — 
If  precious  thus  the  nation's  grave,  unknown, 
How,  to  our  children,  dearer  still  our  own  ! 
How  fit  the  care  that  guards  the  holy  place, 
Crowns  it  with  trees,  and  shapes  its  walks  with  grace ; 
Removes  each  noxious  weed, — with  tracts  of  green, 
Soothes  the  sad  eye,  and  solaces  the  scene ; 
Decrees,  that  hallowing  peace  shall  still  persuade 
The  living  hearts  that  loved  us,  to  its  shade  ! 

Here  will  they  come,  when  wearied  in  the  strife, 
And  gain,  from  walks  of  death,  the  strength  for  life ; 
Here  fondly  read  each  record  that  declares 
To  what  bright  virtues  they  become  the  heirs ; 
What  patriot  sires  have  done,  to  crown  with  fame, 
16* 


346  THE     CITY     OF     THE     SILENT. 

The  son's,  the  citizen's,  the  nation's  name  ; 

How  Moultrie  fought, — the  scene  beneath  our  glance, — 

In  our  first  struggle  for  deliverance  ; — 

Trace,  with  sweet  tears  of  homage,  mix'd  with  pain, 

The  mournful  legend  of  the  martyr'd  Hayne;f 

Turn,  still  obedient  to  the  patriot  spell, 

To  read  how,  rashly  brave,  young  Laurens  fell  ;J 

And,  field  and  forum,  equally  in  sight, 

The  shrine  of  Rutledge  hail  on  loftiest  height ! 

How,  from  the  sea,  returning  to  our  shores, 

Each  kindred  eye  this  sacred  realm  explores ; 

Reads  at  a  glance,  and  reading  still,  reveres 

Our  State's  proud  record  of  two  hundred  years ; 

Sees,  in  each  tomb,  a  tale  of  generous  strife, 

That  crown'd  our  name  with  pride,  our  land  with  life ; 

And,  from  each  shaft  that  rises  o'er  the  steep, 

Tells  where  the  hero  and  the  statesman  sleep  ; 

Cries,  breathless,  to  his  comrades,  as  he  sees 

There  rest  the  Pinckneys,  Gadsdens,  Rutledges  ;§ 

Yon  column  honors  Marion,§ — and  the  spire, 

White-shafted,  'neath  the  sun  that  glows  like  fire, 

Our  city  rear'd  in  sadness,  but  in  pride, 

To  one  who,  battling,  in  his  harness  died, 

Late  for  his  glory, — for  our  peace  too  soon, 

The  wondrous  man  of  statesmen,  our  Calhoun  ! 

Yet,  not  to  these  alone,  the  gifted,  great, 
Our  sacred  shrines  and  shades  we  consecrate ; 


*  At  Magnolia  Cemetery,  you  look  out  and  see  Fort  Moultrie,  whence  the 
British  were  beaten  in  the  Revolution. 

f  Executed  by  the  British  in  the  war  of  the  Revolution. 
\  John  Laurens,  the  Bayard  of  the  Revolution. 
§  Well-known  patriots  of  the  Revolution. 


THE     CITY     OF     THE     SILENT.  347 

Their  tombs,  the  landmarks  to  the  patriot  eye, 

With  great  historic  names  that  cannot  die, 

Command  the  homage  justly  due  to  fame : — 

But  other  loved  and  lost  ones  have  their  claim. 

Not  to  our  wonder,  but  our  love,  they  plead, 

"With  quiet  virtues  and  unwritten  deed ; 

This  realm  a  city,  where  the  humblest  stand, 

In  place  with  those,  the  loftiest  of  the  land  ; 

Not  great,  but  good ;  not  raised  to  glory's  height, 

But  dear  to  love,  and  precious  in  its  sight ; 

By  memory  cherish'd  when  their  toils  are  done, — 

In  hearts  still  warm,  though  hidden  from  the  sun ; 

Bewept  with  tears,  that  soften  as  they  fall, 

And  sought  with  prayers,  though  still  beyond  recall. 

Their  lowlier  tombs  in  sacred  groves  shall  rise, 

Where  Grief,  unwatch'd,  may  watch  with  shrouded  eyes  1 

Hither  shall  Love  repair,  in  future  hours 

To  dress  and  deck  the  cherish'd  turf  with  flowers ; 

Here  linger  fond,  while  slowly  sinks  the  day, 

And  fancy  still  a  voice  that  pleads  to  stay. 

Hither  shall  Reverence  come, — the  son,  the  friend, — 

Mute  with  dear  memories,  and  devoutly  bend  ; 

Here  Contemplation  veil  her  lofty  brow, 

Passion  deplore,  and  meek  Repentance  bow  ; 

Hope,  from  old  ashes,  light  her  torch  anew, 

And  Duty  learn  what  pathways  to  pursue. 

The  Sire,  decreed  to  see  his  first-born  fail, 

Stricken,  like  the  flower  in  "wild  autumnal  gale, 

Here,  by  the  fractured  column  which  he  rears, 

Find  still  a  soothing  virtue  in  his  tears. 

Hither,  the  Mother,  widow'd  in  the  hour 

When  Love  was  joyous  most  in  bloom  and  flower, 

Her  orphan  brood  shall  bring  ;  and,  by  the  sod 

Where  sleeps  the  Sire,  describe  the  ways  of  God  ; 


34:8  THE     CITY     OF     THE     SILENT. 

Train  their  young  hearts  to  tenderness,  and  chide, 
By  sense  of  mortal  loss,  their  mortal  pride. 

All,  from  the  shrines  of  grief  shall  strengthen  faith, 
All  gather  lessons  from  the  lips  of  death  ; 
In  fields  of  silence,  find  best  gifts  of  speech  ; 
Through  worlds  of  darkness,  worlds  of  brightness  reach  ; 
Grow  strong  with  wrestling  at  the  tomb  with  Thought, 
And  there  win  triumphs  never,  won  unsought ! 
Arm'd  with  the  Cross,  and  glad  beneath  its  weight, 
There  matchless  Love  shall  conquer  matchless  Hate ; 
From  sin  the  victim  pluck,  from  wrath  the  doom, 
From  death  the  living — glory  from  the  gloom  ! — 
Grave,  where  thy  victory  now  ? — O  Death,  thy  sting  ? — 
Lo  !  the  freed  spirit  on  triumphant  wing  ! 
Joyous  in  conquest,  hark  !  the  white-robed  train, 
The  Prince  of  Peace  that  welcome  to  his  reign : 
His  trump  of  victory  sounds — his  legions  rise, 
Myriads  of  might,  in  congregated  skies  ; 
By  Mercy  led,  they  gather  fast  to  save, 
Time  has  no  sway,  no  prison  now  the  grave ; 
Glad  eyes  unclose,  the  bonds  of  Death  are  riven, 
And  white-wing'd  Faith,  with  Love,  ascends  to  Heaven  ! 


THE    END. 


V>  I 


